


Stars Never Lie (a Cinderella Story)

by persepolis130



Category: Cinderella (Fairy Tale), Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, Alternate Universe - Historical, Arranged Marriage, China, Fairy Tale Retellings, First Time, Genderbending, Genderqueer Character, Gryffindor vs. Slytherin Rivalry, Life Debt, M/M, Male Cinderella, foot binding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-10
Updated: 2017-06-11
Packaged: 2018-11-12 13:12:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 35,330
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11162547
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/persepolis130/pseuds/persepolis130
Summary: Disguised as a girl to escape a life of servitude, Scorpius is forced to attend the annual Spring Festival, where the Imperial Prince's heir is searching for a wife. When an ill-mannered servant boy discovers his secret, Scorpius flees, leaving behind a single golden shoe. Can he evade the Prince's heir, who's fallen in love with the elegance of his tiny feet? And why does every animal he sees claim to be his dead ancestor?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is a quasi-magical AU of our two boys that takes place in China in 1678. I do have a history degree, but I've never studied Chinese history, so if I get some things wrong... well, it's a fairy tale, right?

__**Seventeenth Year of the Reign of the Kangxi Emperor  
** Province of the Bordered White Banner  
Imperial China  


The yip of our watchdog heralds the messenger's arrival. The silly little thing trots right up to the man, its tail wagging, hopping up and down in hopes of a treat. The messenger shoos it, shifting the strap of his satchel across his shoulder as he treads up the courtyard.

Further inside, tethered in shadow, the guard dog gives a warning growl. Never one to bark, the dark behemoth is deadly with its bite. The messenger gives it a wide berth.

With a sigh, I step away from my vantage point and back into my room. What sort of impression would it give if a man not of my family saw me hanging out a window, gaping at passers-by like a commoner? There's nothing all that special about his coming, anyway; the Prince sends someone every year. 

Even so, preparation has no substitute, and I check my clothing, smoothing the silken fabric across the flat of my chest. I feel at the pins in my hair, rearranging a few that have slipped, and straighten my lacquer comb. The sash at my waist is twisted, so I pull it back into place, rolling my fingers into the bow. I squeeze my eyes shut and whisper a quick prayer for luck.

It's a funny thing, luck. They say whether you have it or not is determined at the moment of your birth. On the night I was born, the constellation Scorpius burned brightly in the heavens, and the astronomers declared it an auspicious omen. It was sure to bring fortune to my family, they said, and once I'd outgrown my milk name, Father named me after it. After all, the stars never lie.

Is it odd, then, that my life has turned out this way?

I try not to think about that, though, as it does no good to dwell upon such things. And anyway, even though today's visit is nothing more than a formality, it does feel like a bit of an occasion. It's not every day that we have a visitor, especially one who's here on my account. 

Should I change my shoes? 

But no, perhaps going that far would be vulgar.

I've just finished readying myself-- all thoughts of vulgarities pushed firmly aside-- when Pansy rushes through the door in her usual graceless manner. "A _messenger_!" she shrieks, all of a dither. "From the _Imperial Prince_ himself! Quickly, quickly!" 

The fine robes and expensive jewelry she wears do nothing to disguise her utter lack of elegance, and I impatiently brush away her hands, which try in vain to tug me out the door. "What could a messenger possibly have to do with me?" I ask, feigning innocence with my usual polish.

"Oh, don't be an imbecile," she says, and rolls her eyes. "You know why he's here!"

"I'm sure I don't want to see anyone," I inform her. "Send him away."

She laughs as though I've said something funny. "The way you talk, people would think you're really something special." 

"Mind how you speak to me," I order, but this just makes her laugh harder. 

I take a calming breath because as much as she irritates me, I know I shouldn't fault her for behaving like a girl from a teahouse. She can't help it: that's what she is. Or rather, it's what she was before Father took a liking to her. 

Not long after Mother died, Father was to sit for the Imperial Examinations, but he felt so terribly listless that he feared he would fail them yet again. He brought Pansy home one day and set her up as his concubine, and proceeded to pass with highest distinction. Grandfather voiced no protest at her presence, and she's been here ever since. 

Of course I recognize the good she's brought to us, but she's not exactly the epitome of class. After Father moved away to serve the Emperor, I do think he should've tossed her back onto the street where such women belong.

As if illustrating my point, she shoves me toward the door. "Stop posturing and hurry up, already!" she scolds.

I make a show of straightening my robes, and when a sufficient period of time has passed, I declare, "I suppose if I _must_ go…" and lift my chin, looking down my nose at her. I've been practicing in the mirror, and I'm sure the effect is quite dramatic. 

Pansy says, "You look just as stupid doing that as your father does," and shakes her head.

Stung, I tell her, "Well, I _am_ my father's son." As though there were ever any doubt as to my paternity! The same can't be said for _her_ child, of course. Though the girl was born some time after Pansy joined us, Father has never acknowledged her as one of his. A child of this family with a round face, ready smile, and plump fingers? 

Isn't _that_ a proverbial cuckoo in the nest!

Pansy purses her lips, catching the jibe. "Don't let the messenger hear you talk like that. As far as anyone else knows, you're your father's _daughter_. His son died when you were five years old!"

"Do you think I'd forgot?" I snap.

She doesn't answer but makes a disgusted sounding noise.

I ignore it and follow her out into the hall. Her pace is swift, and she looks ready to throttle me when I fall behind. But of course I can't keep up; her feet are two finger widths longer than mine, and I'm nearly a head taller.

The reception room is silent as Pansy and I enter. The messenger stands fussing with a roll of paper, his long legs gangly and odd looking in his Manchu trousers. Grandfather sits elegantly with his Hanfu robes draped over his knees, a haughty expression on his refined features, looking every bit the master of a grand estate. Though he admitted our visitor without delay, he hasn't offered him anything to quench his thirst, which doesn't bode well. 

I tilt my head downward and feign womanly modesty. Beside me, Pansy makes the requisite movement of deference to the men, and I hurry to copy it.

"Ah," Grandfather says. "My beloved granddaughter, the beautiful Jade, at last. Shall we commence?"

More shrewd than kind, Grandfather is the sort of man who was held in high esteem back when a clever man's goal was something more than merely being clever. Intelligence used to mean wealth, station, and influence, but that was before the Manchu invaders came to China and ousted us Han from our rightful position of power. Grandfather's still respected now, though primarily for his excellent health at over six decades of age. It shocks people to learn that he still has nearly all of his teeth.

The messenger clears his throat and raises his paper. He sounds very young as he says, "Ahem. By order of the Divine Imperial Prince, much loved adopted son of the Most Heavenly Emperor of China, the unmarried daughters of this household who are of marriageable age and proper breeding are officially--"

"--invited to the Spring Festival, yes, yes, I know the drill," Grandfather snaps. "And my answer is the same as it was last year: my granddaughter is a delicate flower! She is not yet _ready_!"

I suck in my breath at his discourtesy. I've never heard Grandfather speak in such a way to someone's face. He always waits for people to leave before insulting them. 

The messenger says nothing, and I hazard a peek up at him. It is horribly rude for a woman of good breeding to look a free man in the face. Such a thing should be done only amongst family, and even then at the proper time. He doesn't see me though, as he is too busy gaping at Grandfather.

Now I understand Grandfather's irritation: the man bears the red circle emblem and vapid expression of Grandfather's enemies, those traitors to the Han blood whose only benefit to society seems to be the ability to breed like well fed silkworms. They have barbaric names and dirty noses.

It angers me to see him here.

I hide my face and hope the red in my cheeks is mistaken for a maiden's blush.

The messenger clears his throat. "Look, it's got nothing to do with her being ready," he says, sounding harassed. "It's not an invitation this year, it's an _order_. If she's a proper young lady, she's _got_ to come. My unc-- the Prince is beside himself. I honestly couldn't care less, but there's no getting around it. I mean, unless she's not _proper_ …"

The anger in Grandfather's voice is nearly palpable. "She is the _most proper young lady_ who shall ever graced your _sorry excuse for a_ \--"

"Okay, fine," the messenger interrupts his rant. "You say she's completely proper, and I believe you. I'll just make note of her qualifications and then be on my way. I know I've got the list somewhere, I think I put it right next to my… alright. Okay, so… how's her embroidery?"

His question is met with a resounding silence.

"Right, so… no embroidery, then?" the messenger offers.

Tactfully, Grandfather says nothing, as any utterance that escaped his mouth would likely revolve around the distinct probability of embroidery needles through the traitor's eyes.

"How about cooking?" the man asks next.

Silence once again.

"Cleaning?"

Grandfather clears his throat.

"Um, does she at least talk?" he asks.

"I _beg_ your pardon!" Grandfather exclaims.

Pansy sighs and places a hand on my shoulder. Though she used to speak to men on a nightly basis, she shouldn't now that she's Father's. I hold my breath for another breach of decorum.

"Look, the girl's shy, but she's got the Four Womanly Accomplishments well under control, if that's what you're getting at. Womanly speech, womanly virtue, womanly deportment, and womanly work." She counts them off on her fingers. "And she can even read."

"Can she?" the messenger asks. He sounds shocked. "Well, I hope she's not _too_ good at it. It'd be nice for her to be able to teach her sons, but you give a woman too much knowledge, and she might start _thinking_ …"

"I _assure_ you," Grandfather spits, "no woman in this house would ever _dream_ of such a thing!"

"Well, that's a relief," the man answers, nodding. He marks something off on his paper. I suppose this is what he had strapped across his back.

I realize I've looked up again, and turn my gaze back to the floor. Even when they consider themselves literate, most women know only the most basic of characters, but reading is a particular hobby of mine. Grandfather has dozens of books in his library, and I've read every single one from front to back. War and poetry, agriculture and opera, Emperors of ancient times and the oddities of Mongols, I know it by heart.

"Will that be all?" Grandfather asks. His tone implies that the answer is yes.

"Well, um," the man says. "Just, ah, one more thing. I realize it's not really… I mean, I don't understand the custom at all, seems like a horrible disability to me, and I really think it should be banned, but… the rules say I've got to take a look."

Pansy giggles and taps her foot against mine. Aghast, I stare down at my tiny embroidered shoes, the hard earned symbol of my false womanhood. 

I swallow.

A woman's worth is measured by her feet. If she is poor or course, or needed for work in the fields, they are large and ugly. If she has discipline and breeding, however, they are bound small and delicate, a graceful extension of the leg. Tiny feet ensure a woman's faithfulness and desirability; the smaller the foot, the higher quality the woman. As the old saying goes, _A pretty face comes from nature, pretty feet from character_.

To have a man so blatantly ask to see mine, to _take a look_ , is as ghastly and embarrassing as if he asked to examine my--

"I don't need to touch them or anything, but we've got so many girls coming, I've just get a general, you know, estimate…" the messenger tells me ( _me_ , oh no, he can't be talking to _me_ , how improper!) as he sinks to his knees. 

For a wild moment, his face is even with mine, and in my panic, I forget where I'm looking. Our eyes lock, and a strange feeling washes over me. I've looked at men from my window, and sometimes I watch Grandfather or Father's guests in the atrium, but always from afar. This man's not handsome, but younger than I'd thought, and his eyes so close are brilliant and deep.

They break from mine, but I can still feel them as though he hadn't looked away. He kneels before me and says, "If you could maybe just… hold one up? Just a bit? Your, um, Han dress thingie is covering…"

He may use such words, but I know what he's after. Men covet a woman's tiny golden lotuses. They dream of them and write poetry about their fragrance and the soft ways they want to caress them in the night. I've never read such poems myself, as no one in my family would ever own something so vulgar except Pansy, and she can only read three words. One is her name, and the other two are not repeatable in mixed company.

Though this man may claim to follow the way of the Manchu, he's Han to the core, and I know he's thinking lewd things! 

"I feel faint," I whisper. I raise my hand to my forehead and sway against Pansy. "I feel faint…"

She squeals and catches me, but I close my eyes and let my head loll to the side. I must be doing as good of a job at looking traumatized as I imagine because Grandfather starts hissing, "Now look what you've done! I _told_ you she was delicate! We'll have to summon a doctor! Get out of my house, you--"

Pansy hauls me off to the women's quarters, where I can't hear Grandfather's shouts. "Are you trying to get the Board of Punishments involved?" she demands. 

I sigh and sit down beside Grandfather's second wife; his only, now that Grandmother's died. I call her my Step-Grandmother, but she's actually my great aunt, Grandmother's sister. Her husband was killed because he wouldn't submit to the new government's Queue Order. 

Confucius says we receive our hair from our parents and, in honor to them, should never cut it. Yet the Manchu, to exert their control as our new rulers, force their barbarous custom upon us as a show of our loyalty to them. _Keep your hair and lose your head, or keep your head and lose your hair_ , they say. When we want to keep our heads, what choice do we have?

The Manchu are wicked, our men shave their foreheads, and our parents are disgraced.

Step-Grandmother had nowhere to go with her husband dead, no matter how valiantly he perished, so of course Grandfather did the respectable thing and married her. She's entirely crazy now and usually just stares into nothing and pulls at her own hair, but I don't mind. We're all crazy in our own way, as my existence no doubt proves.

"The Spring Festival," I say, straightening Step-Grandmother's Hanfu. She's got the front part twisted, and her breast is nearly hanging out. "What a joke."

"Not a joke this time," Pansy tells me, brow furrowed. "There's no way around it, the two of us will have to spend our New Years there. The Prince's word is law."

"It is utterly _ridiculous_ ," I declare, "that the Emperor of _my_ country could have made such a person his son. Why, the man's not even nobility! What did his father do? Something very stupid and common…"

"Potter," Pansy says. "He made ceramics. Bowls and vases and things."

"Ridiculous!" I repeat.

Pansy shrugs, and Step-Grandmother laughs madly at nothing.

I sigh.

The Spring Festival is held every year, and since I turned twelve, I've been invited. Marriage in Spring is thought to bring harmony and many sons, and dozens of matchmakers attend the Festival, hoping to make good matches for their clients. Most girls beg to go, Pansy says, if not to find a rich husband, then for a chance to view the flowers and meet with childhood friends. 

I don't have any friends, we've got flowers at home, and I hardly need festivals to garner proposals. I've had a half dozen over the years, and they always cause trouble for Grandfather. Finding a different way to turn everyone down-- especially when it's the son of a high-ranking official whom I, by all reasoning, _should_ marry-- has been difficult.

Less difficult than giving the real reason, though.

Oh, poor Grandfather, I bring such strain upon him! It's not _his_ fault his grandson makes such a lovely girl! Just imagine all the Festival offers my dignified posture and minuscule feet will bring!

"Of course you know why the Prince is making so many girls come, don't you?" Pansy asks. 

I shake my head, still feeling remorseful for Grandfather's sake, and pull Step-Grandmother's hand from her hair. She's been fussing with it a lot and has a bald spot now. "The messenger mentioned him being upset about something, but I can't imagine what that has to do with me."

Pansy grins the way she does when she knows something I don't. It doesn't happen often, but she's an absolute fiend for gossip. "Well, his heir was killed, now wasn't he?" she asks.

I've heard something of this. Grandfather knows a lot of people who know a lot of things, and he tells me those things a grandson should be privy to. The Imperial Prince's eldest son had been training in the military and was killed in a rebellion on the Banner's border some months ago.

"But he has another son," I say. "Why doesn't he name _him_ as heir? Is there something wrong with him?"

Pansy makes a noise of assent. "He was never the most proper of boys, but he's been absolutely uncontrollable since his brother died. Reckless, unruly, stays out all night drinking and cavorting with commoners," she tells me. "They say he wailed with the women at the funeral, and though the mourning period's over, he still hasn't shaved his hair off!"

"I'd thought the brothers didn't get along," I say. "Didn't you say you'd heard that?"

She shrugs. "Maybe he's using grief as an excuse for his behavior."

"Is it so bad that the Prince would disown him, though?" I ask. "Is that why he needs another wife? To give him a more suitable son?"

Pansy laughs. "Oh, it's not the Prince who's getting a wife. You think that shrew he's married to-- feet as big as any man's!-- would allow another woman in the Palace, much less his bed? She can barely stand the concubines, and he's only got twenty-six of them! It's the _son's_ wedding they're preparing for!"

"But you just said he was horrid! An ill-mannered ruffian!" I insist. "And he's hardly older than I am! What would a boy like that do with a wife?"

"I can think of a few things," Pansy says, smirking.

I feel my face heat. "That's not what I meant! Why must you be so crude?"

"They say," she leans in toward me, as though someone other than Step-Grandmother could overhear, "that he invokes the rule of the Third Night."

"The what?" I ask, though the sound of it has me feeling wary.

"It's a Manchu custom, of course. You hear rumors of it on the streets. It states that a woman automatically becomes a man's wife when he's spent the night with her three times," she tells me. 

I clap my hands over my mouth, my eyes wide. How barbaric! 

"Of course, I'm sure it doesn't count if he pays for it. Such a shame," she laments. "Think of how pretty I would've looked as a bride…"

Pansy has never looked pretty a day in her life, and I hardly think a bride's costume would change that. I'm too disgusted over the Manchu to mention it, though. Imagine marrying in such a way! What about the dowry-- the tea set, linens, lotus seeds, jewelries and lucky money? And the bride price-- cakes, land, and geese, and maybe a few servants thrown in for good measure? And what if--

"What if he only spends two nights with her?" I ask, dreading the response.

Pansy shrugs. "Considering the boy doesn't have a wife yet, I'd say that's exactly what he's been doing."

The noise I make startles even Step-Grandmother. "Disgusting!" I exclaim. "How could _anyone_ think such licentious behavior is suitable? He's sullied innocent maidens! And I'm to be presented as a potential spouse to this boy?"

"I don't think you'll have to worry about your maidenhood around him," Pansy points out.

I ignore her and proclaim, "How mortifying! I feel dirty just thinking of it!"

Pansy laughs and tells me, "You're still young. You'll change your mind one day, you'll see."

"Better that I don't," I tell her.

"Why?" she asks. "You're good looking enough. Don't think you could give some girl a thrill?"

I glare at her, anger building up in my chest. "You're very _funny_ ," I snap. "Do you think many girls would rejoice at the thought of passion with a man who's more feminine than they are? Would the arch of my foot inspire them to new heights?"

"Oh, calm down," she says. "I was just--"

"Would _you_ have done it?" I demand, refusing to be pacified. "Back when you did unnamable things for money? Would you have taken the poor soul's payment, or thrown it back in his face and laughed?"

"Don't be stupid, I'd have taken the money, and you know it. Anyone would-- money is money! Must you be so continually melodramatic?" Pansy demands.

I rise in a flurry of movement and kiss Step-Grandmother goodbye, feeling bitter about the whole affair. 

"Jade… Jade, wait!" Pansy calls after me as I leave, but I don't answer. Jade… it's a fake name for a fake girl, and I don't feel like being a girl at this moment. As a matter of fact, I don't feel like being much of anything right now.

I wander the halls until I find myself at the ancestral shrine.

Of everyone in the world, I've always loved Father best. He takes me seriously no matter how petty my issues. With him away so often now for his work in the Forbidden City, it's difficult finding someone who understands me. I've always felt that Mother would, though, so I like to visit her here. I bring her tea today, and burn incense to her memory. 

"I miss you, Mother," I tell her.

Wishing she were here doesn't do me any good, though, so I walk out to the pond. It's a slow, swaying trek on tiny lotus feet, and I plant each footstep firmly, one paving stone at a time. A single misstep on such uneven ground could mean a broken ankle, twisted knee, or worse. 

The sun is just starting to lower in the sky, its brightness warding off the late winter chill. Our servants are all off in the fields, or doing whatever else it is that such people do, and the atrium is quiet. I sigh and sit, dipping my fingers into the still waters of the pond. 

It seems that the Imperial Prince is the cause of all woe in my life. If not for Father's stupid life debt to him, no one would've had to think I was a girl in the first place. I don't know the whole story, only that the Prince saved Father's life, a deed which demanded recompense. This was years ago, and Father was young and foolish, and offered his firstborn son. 

Never a fool, the Prince accepted.

When the time came, though, Father realized his error. Mother wept herself to illness at the thought of them taking me away, and Father, too, had come to love me very much. What was there to do but hide me? And what better place than in plain sight?

By all accounts, I was a clever and likable boy. I adored horses, jumping rope, pet dragon flies and throwing stones at Grandfather's tetchy old hunting dogs. My family being members of the ancient Han aristocracy and still fairly well off, I was pampered at every turn, but I'm told I never became spoiled from it. I was happy, healthy and carefree.

Perhaps a girl would have known what was coming when she saw the roosters, knife, kettle and wrappings set out in the atrium. Perhaps she would've screamed, or cried and begged for just one more day of freedom, one more romp in the fields under a warm sun before meeting her fate. 

I don't remember what I did, but I suppose I just smiled and went along with it. 

Unlike what many experience, it wasn't painful for me at first. Mother's belly was heavy with the baby, and she didn't bind as tightly as she might've. Twisting my toes underneath, urging the ball of my foot toward my heel, her hands caused only discomfort. She stitched the bindings up so that I couldn't undo them, but no such thought occurred to me. 

Walking was difficult, but Mother let me sleep beside her that night, sending her servant out into the hallway. She fed me fruit slices and rice candy. I thought it a treat.

It wasn't until the third re-binding that I understood. 

The bones in the foot of a five year old are not as well formed as those of an adult. They're quite easily broken, especially the long, slender bones of the arch. A bit of force, and they shatter like glass, and just as loudly.

I shrieked at the first pop.

I remember it as though it were yesterday, that horrible sound, and pain like fire burning all the way up my calf. I scarcely noticed when she did the other; what is a one more drop of water to a flood?

"It shall soon be over, darling, don't fear," Mother soothed afterward. "When your baby brother comes, it will all be over. We'll unbind your feet, and you'll be good as new…"

I sobbed and sobbed and didn't notice until I had no tears left that Mother looked more ill than I felt.

The baby was born the next day. It was a boy.

It died.

Then, so did Mother.

And so I'm left here, alone with no future and no one daring to expose me now that Father has no other child to offer up.

But I can't blame Father for going back on his word, even if it's left me the way I am today. Who knows what an Imperial Prince of the Manchu would have done to me, an innocent Han boy? I'm sure it would've been a fate worse than death.

I can't help but wonder sometimes, though, had I been born into a different life, would I have remained the way I started out? Innocent and sweet?

"Hello, there," I hear a voice say. 

I blink and look around me. Has someone entered the atrium without me noticing?

But there's no one there, and I turn my eyes back to the pond. A enormous golden fish swims just below me, its fins flapping, mouth gulping hungrily at the water.

I sigh. "I'm sorry, I don't have anything for you. I'll have to remember to bring feed next time," I tell it.

"Thanks," it says.

My mind goes blank.

"I hear you're in a spot of trouble," the fish tells me.

I realize I'm gaping and close my mouth. Perfect. Now I'm going mad.

"I can help you, you know," the goldfish says. "I know exactly what you need."

Perhaps I've had too much fresh air. I'm unused to being outside for long periods, and combined with the strain from the messenger's visit, his clever, searching eyes--

"You're not imagining me. And you're not going mad. I realize I look like a fish, but I'm not," the fish announces. "I'm your ancestor, a guardian spirit. I'm here to guide you on your path."

I think back to the shrine and my wish for Mother to be with me, but the fish's voice is that of a man. "My ancestor is a fish?" I say, just to prove that the creature won't respond.

To my annoyance, it answers, "Well, if you want to get technical, I'm not so much of an ancestor as a cousin. On your father's mother's side. I'm called Black. Perhaps you've heard of me?"

Grandmother did have a cousin named Black who died long before I was born, but this proves nothing. In fact, I'm sure it's all my imagination, and there's no fish in the pond at all. I pull up my sleeve and reach my hand into the water. My fingers brush slippery scales, and I wince.

"What you need," the golden Black fish tells me, "is your mother's shoes. You'll find them in a trunk in her old room, under the cloak of kingfisher feathers. You'll be stunning at the Festival in those!"

I pull my hand sharply from the water. Imagine going through my dead Mother's things to retrieve a pair of shoes! You'd think I had none of my own! "What an unsavory hallucination I'm having!" I declare, and stand with as much dignity as possible when fleeing from one's own insanity.

"Remember, in the chest under the cloak! You'll thank me later!" Black calls after me.

Madness. Madness! I've lost my mind! There's only one thing to do: find Pansy.

She's washing her daughter's hair in a basin on the floor. Lather covers her arms up to the elbow, and a stray lock of hair hangs in her face. 

"Hi, Jade!" my chubby cheeked, common looking step-sister says, rubbing at her eye when water splashes into it.

I ignore her. "I want fish for dinner," I tell Pansy. "There's a huge one out in the pond. Have it cooked."

"Do I look like a servant?" she asks. She blows the strand of hair out of the way, and it plops back down again, wet from the humidity.

"Do you really want me to answer that?" I shoot back.

I feel a bit bad at dinner, having sacrificed a perfectly innocent and beautiful creature to my insanity. It doesn't even taste good. 

I'll have to have Father buy me a new one.

* * * * * 

On the day before the Festival, I take my newest shoes out of their wooden box and discover that the extent of my mistake with the fish goes beyond a simple order of purchase.

I've worked on the shoes for months, painstakingly embroidering each stitch with a skill that has never come naturally to my hands. My fingers are long and slender, but a man's nonetheless, and more suited to handling a bow and arrow than needle and thread. Accepting mediocrity is out of the question, though; I must excel no matter many times I prick myself. Thus, for this project, I chose an exceptionally complex design: tiny golden dragons weaving in and out of red and pink peonies, tongues of fire licking at the stems.

They're stunning.

I slide one onto my foot, admiring the way it emphasizes the elegant point of my toe. I've done well; people will gain a new respect for my family when I show up in these. I'll be the envy of every girl there.

I take a step, and the shoe falls off my foot.

"Oh no," I murmur. I put it back on, trying to walk more carefully, but it's no use. I try on the other shoe, but that one is no different. I've bound my feet too tightly, and now the shoes are too big! 

Panicked, I untie the sash from my waist and wrap it around one foot, as though a second layer of binding, and knot it at my ankle. I brace myself against the wall and try to shove the shoe on, but now my foot is too fat. 

" _Pansy!_ " I screech, not bothering to keep my voice low and womanly. " _Pansyyyyyyyyy!_ "

Oh, this is horrible! All of that hard work to prove that even my family's boys are better than everyone else's girls, and now this! Wobbling, I pull up my Hanfu robe, which has fallen open in the front without its tie. It ignores my efforts, however, and continues to slide off my shoulders. Exasperated, I let it do as it will, balancing on one foot and yanking with both hands on the shoe. 

" _PANSY!_ " I yell again, and hear her shouting from down the corridor. 

"What are you screaming about? You're going to frighten the servants to death with all that noise! The _nerve_ of you, you bratty little spoiled rotten--"

"Don't _call_ me that!" I shout, furious, and tug at the shoe with all my might. I finally feel my foot sliding into place… just before the silk lets loose a horrible ripping sound. 

I gasp as my fingers slide from the fabric, and I pitch backwards. For a moment that feels like eternity, my arms circle in the air as I try to regain my balance. 

But it's no use.

I tumble to the ground, my back hitting so hard that it takes the wind from me. My robes are wide open, baring my naked skin to the air, and the ripped fabric of my once perfect shoe dangles from my foot.

"Having a little problem, darling?" Pansy asks. "And I do mean _little_ …"

I look down at my naked body and know it's not my feet she's talking about. Unneeded and unused, my penis lies limp against my thigh. I cover it with the edge of my Hanfu and feel like crying. 

What a monstrous farce my body is.

Pansy laughs.

I hate it, and I hate her. She's the most awful, terrible, _wicked_ concubine step-mother anyone has ever had. "It's not funny!" I tell her. "Stop laughing, it's not _funny_! I've ruined my _shoe_!"

She stops after what seems like forever and helps me up off the floor. "If you'd waited two seconds for my help, this never would've happened," she tells me. "You overreact to everything. Just wear the pair you made last summer."

"But they don't match my best outfit!" I protest, struggling to close my robes. "And one of the Narcissus flowers is crooked, I'll disgrace Grandmother's memory if I wear those awful things!"

She rolls her eyes, and I hang my head. "For someone who claims they don't want to go, you're awfully particular about your clothing," she mutters.

What does she know? I have a family name to uphold, and I don't take such matters lightly. In fact, my very diligence has led to my downfall!

Everyone knows that normal girls are naughty little things who only want to be rid of the pain of their bound feet. Unlike them, when I get upset, I wrap my bindings tighter. Or rather, I scream at Pansy to wrap them tighter, and she says I'm going to lose another toe but does it anyway. It takes my mind off of things when my feet throb, and makes me more grateful for the times when they don't. And of course, it's given me the daintiest, most desirable feet. 

If I'm to pretend I'm a girl, why do it halfway? And what do I care if my toes all rot off? I'm not using them for anything.

That evening, wallowing in my own despair and wasting New Year's poetry paper with hideous calligraphy, I think of my ancestor fish. Of course I imagined the creature, but still. What if Mother really did have fabulous shoes stored away in a trunk someplace?

Everyone knows not to enter Mother's room, but the lock on the door is easily removed. I'm the proverbial woman of the house now, and as such, I've been entrusted with the keys. The last time I ventured inside was when I was five years old, and I don't remember it well. The trunk sits opposite the bed, against the far wall under the window. Dust covers it, and my fingers make dark marks on its surface. Inside, beneath a cloth package yellowed with age, sits a pair of breathtaking shoes with gold soles.

Side by side, they rest in the palm of my hand. Crimson roses flow over their sides as though the shoes themselves were a garden, the colors still brilliant as though they'd been stitched yesterday. My breath catches in my throat because I know just by looking at them that they'll fit. 

I slide them on, awed, and sway about the room, admiring the soft clicks the gold makes against the ground. I know I shouldn't, but I can't help but smile. My mother was an admirable woman to have such feet; I'm sure Grandfather paid an astonishing bride price for her. Such a shame that she died so young, before the investment paid off.

As I prepare for the Festival, I try not to think of killing piscine reincarnations of my ancestors. I'm sure it was total coincidence that my mind dreamt up a creature that knew about Mother's shoes. Most likely, I'd seen what was in the chest when I was young, and the knowledge was playing at the edges of my thoughts. 

Though that doesn't explain how the fish knew I'd need the shoes before I did.

But what could I do about it anyway? 

It's as they say: _Water spilled can never be retrieved_.

* * * * * 

Our journey into the city starts just after dawn, Pansy sitting beside me on the palanquin. She peeks out from between the silk panels, squealing and giggling at the sights. I try not to look, but being a proper girl, I've never been off our land before, and I find my eyes straying. 

As the sun rises higher, odd looking buildings seem to pop up from nowhere, and people line the streets, some with banners and all wearing red to celebrate the holiday. Someone sets off a firework, and the noise nearly startles me off the side of the litter.

Pansy laughs. "This is where I lived, you know, before your father brought me home. Just a few streets over…"

City people are frightening, poor and uncouth. Father says they have bugs and don't wash themselves. I'm sure they'd spit on boys with tiny feet. I mustn't look. 

I repeat this to myself over and over, concentrating on the rhythmic step of the litter bearers, the eight strong men Grandfather has hired to transport me with dignity. That enticing sliver of the outside world still calls to me, though, and I feel ashamed.

The Festival site is loud and bright and terrifying. I have no intention of leaving the safety of the palanquin.

"You can't sit here all day," Pansy tells me.

I cross my arms and give her a look that says I beg to differ.

"We're at the entrance to the matchmakers' tents just beside the palace. This is where we get off, and then the litter moves so the next person can get off. There's a system to it. We can't stay here," she announces. "You haven't got any choice."

I purse my lips. "The summons only said I had to come to the Festival. It didn't say I had to do anything once I arrived," I tell her. 

"All the unwed noble girls in the entire Banner will be here to enjoy the day. It won't hurt you to join them for once," she informs me. 

I tip my chin up. "I shall stay with the litter."

She looses an indelicate snort. "Fine then, stay with the litter. The men are going to take it around back and get pissed. If you're lucky, they'll offer you some rice wine before they have their way with you." And with that, she pulls back the silk and orders one of the men to help her down. 

I stare after her, aghast, and shake my head, swinging my feet over the palanquin's edge. The man who helps me to the ground farms our land, but he was father's personal servant when the two were young. When Father left for the Capitol, he had a home built for the man and found him a suitable wife. Though he's the size of an ox, he's always had a soft spot for me, and a mere quiver of my bottom lip has him at my beck and call. In three strides, he catches up to Pansy and motions for her to wait for me.

She turns back in my direction and rolls her eyes. "Life is not this difficult," she says. "You make things so much harder than they are. Why don't you grow up, already?"

"Into _what_?" I demand.

" _Pansy!_ " a voice screeches. "Pansy, darling, is that _you_?"

"Iris!" she exclaims waving her arm wildly in the direction of a group of women I hadn't noticed before. "How have you been, it's been forever since we--"

"What are you _doing_!" I hiss, feeling panicky. "We haven't got time for this, I've got to--"

"Oh, just go inside and find one of the matchmakers, Jade," Pansy tells me with a dismissing gesture. "You'll be fine!"

"But I--" 

She waves me away and sets off toward her friend to bone up on the latest worthless gossip. Iris wears badly embroidered robes, and as Pansy embraces her, I can't help but think of what a tacky pair the two of them make.

I sigh, alone and out of place in the columned courtyard of the palace. The multitudes of flowers mock me with their colorful cheeriness. I should've known this would happen. In the end, I'm always alone.

Feminine voices and music punctuated with laughter drift out from the matchmakers' tent's entrance, and I take a deep breath and start toward it. I must be at my best. I must not bring disrespect to my family. I must play the perfect girl, the most delicate, obedient, and marriageable. 

This is my role.

Two men stand guard at the tent flaps, but I keep my head down, eyes venturing no higher than their knees as I pass. I step into the laughter and sounds of happy women, only to find that it's gone silent.

I take a step forward, but with my eyes on the ground, I have no idea where to go. The clicking of my shoes in the quiet of the room echoes in my ears. Swallowing, I look up.

Everyone is staring at me.

Matchmakers sit at their tables, brushes suspended in the air. The jaws of the girls in the seats before them hang open. Musicians' fingers hover above their strings. Wide-eyed women put their hands to their mouths in surprise. Manchu and Han, old and young, in silks or cheap cottons, they're all gaping at me. A small girl exclaims, "Mummy, look at _her_!"

This break the silence, and the women begin whispering, tittering to each other. I catch bits about my hair, my robes, my willowy figure, the tiny gold shoes on my tiny lotus feet. I stare down at them myself, my face flaming.

Perhaps Pansy was right when she told me I'd overdressed. I only wanted to make a good impression wearing my best things, but it seems my things are too much nicer than everyone else's. My red Hanfu is embroidered in a thick border of flowers at the hem and bottom of the sleeves, with vines trailing up the front to my waist. To ward off the spring chill, I've donned a cloak interwoven with strands of gold thread, which matches my shoes exactly. My long hair is tastefully twisted and held in place with my jade phoenix comb, and long, beaded earrings emphasize the slenderness of my neck.

Should I be vilified for being better than other people? Is it a crime to be beautiful?

I suck on my bottom lip, wondering if it's too late to change my mind and drink rice wine with the litter bearers, when a girl comes up to me. "Hello," she says. "I haven't see you here before."

I swallow and nod, eyes trained on my toes.

"I'm Lily," she says. 

Of course she is. Isn't every girl named Lily nowadays? Pansy says that if you've got less than a half dozen in your extended family, you're passé. 

"It's so nice to meet you. I've never seen such lovely clothing," Lily tells me, and ducks her head down so that her face is between my eyes and my toes. Her dark eyes are pretty, but she has her hair pulled into a most ghastly coiffure, two massive buns with peonies sticking out of them. Her face is cute with quirky red lips, but I can't say I'd call her pretty. Her looks are too Manchu.

"Thank you," I murmur, at a loss.

She smiles. "You, um… might want to move out of the doorway, though. Other people will want in."

My face flushes redder still, and I follow her to a bench. Still looking down, I can't help but notice her feet as they poke out from beneath her robes. At first glance, they appear to be bound, but her shoes are actually attached to odd wooden stilts that pose as feet. She's probably never felt a day of pain in her life.

Cheater.

"Are you here to see the matchmakers?" Lily asks after we've settled ourselves. "They're all looking for a wife for the Prince's son, you know. Everyone says he'll be named heir soon, and just think of the commission they'll get on _that_ deal. Oh, but I'm sure you'd look lovely at an Imperial banquet. Though I'd feel sorry for the chefs-- everyone would be so busy admiring you, they'd forget to eat!"

"You flatter me," I say in my most modest tone, though I can't help but agree. If only Imperial banquets didn't come with a husband attached!

"Are you here with your mother?" she asks. "Where has she gone?"

I shake my head, embarrassed to explain.

"Have you found a new friend, Lily, dear?" a voice asks. "How nice!"

I look up to see an older woman, her hair turning grey, smiling down at us. She has plump red cheeks and looks far too cheerful for someone with so few years left to live. 

I nod delicately and look back at my shoes. 

"What a pretty thing!" the woman exclaims. "And so modest! But what are you doing here with the maidens, dear, surely you've already been married! Are you with a younger sister, maybe?"

Lily laughs, a cute tinkling sound I wish my voice had, and tells her, "She's here for the Prince's son, Grandmother. She's come out of hiding for him!"

"No," I protest, "truly, that's not why--"

"Oh, what a dear!" the woman exclaims, likely going deaf in her old age. "We must find you a quiet place to sit until one of the matchmakers is free. All of this noise can't be healthy for such a delicate thing. Oh! I know just where we can put you…"

Lily waves goodbye as the woman hauls me out of the tent and into the hallways of the palace. Her feet are small, but she moves like a carthorse. I pant to keep up, horrified at the possibility of breaking into a sweat. She deposits me in a room, quite alone and feeling justifiably terrorized, and tells me to wait.

I want to tell her that Pansy will be looking for me soon, but I can't think of what to say. Is it shameful to not have come with my mother, or at least a true woman of my family? Would it look bad for a mere concubine to be escorting me? And how should I describe her? "Plump, plain, and loud" could apply to so many different women here!

"Just have a seat, dear, someone will be right with you!" the old woman exclaims, and then bustles back out the door.

I sigh.

How do I get myself into these things?

At least the room isn't terribly unpleasant. It's quiet, the couch is comfortable, and a folding screen painted with a landscape stands opposite me. I wonder if the artist is the same as the man who did the one we have, as they do look similar. Grandfather commissioned our eight panel screen before I was born, and I remember it from my earliest childhood. It sits in Grandfather's library.

I think it's nicer than this one.

A servant girl with large feet brings me tea and sweets. 

"How long do you think the wait shall be?" I ask.

She shakes her head and says something that brings to mind the time our watchdog was bitten by a snake. 

"Don't you speak Chinese?" I demand.

When she doesn't answer, I groan. What irony has brought me a servant who speaks only Manchu?

Probably the same that brought me masculine body odor and feet the length of my thumb.

After some time, I begin to think I've been abandoned. My tea has gone cold, and still no one has come. Though spring has begun, the days are still short, and the sun has begun to lower in the heavens. I pull my cloak tighter and slide my legs up under me, tucking my robes over my feet. Embroidered silks and golden shoes are beautiful, but not warm.

How long am I to sit here? Where is the matchmaker? Where is Pansy?

And why hasn't that idiot Manchu servant girl brought me any supper?

I'm gazing at the folding screen, examining the way the mountains disappear into the mist as my stomach grumbles, when I hear the pad of feet enter. 

"It's about time," I tell the servant. 

"About time for what?" a voice asks.

I look up, startled, to find a young man in the room. He wears rumpled clothing in the Manchu style, his legs in trousers and pointed shoes on his feet. But I barely notice these things because of his hair, which is easily the most hideous travesty I've ever witnessed.

The plait of his queue trails elegantly over one shoulder, but the shaved part on top has grown out. His hair sticks up half a finger length like a brain addled bird's nest or the reeds of a half woven basket. I find myself staring, lost to all propriety.

"Have you lost your voice?" he asks.

I flush and turn my eyes toward the ground. Who is this person, and what is he doing here? "My apologies," I murmur. "I am waiting for someone."

"Whatever," he says. "You're all so stupid."

My face goes red, jaw clenching. Stupid! A boy with rumpled clothing and ugly hair who wanders into other people's waiting chambers called _me_ stupid! He's probably somebody's litter bearer, or a food vender, or peddler of trinkets or some such. There's a Festival for the commoners today as well, isn't there?

Imagine such a person insulting _me_! 

But I must take it in stride; it won't do to be rude. "It seems that you may have taken a wrong turn, as I am waiting in this room at the moment," I say, in the hopes that he'll take the hint and leave.

"No, I know exactly where I am," he tells me. "No one has any idea I'm here, and I don't feel like being chased around the place again, so if you think I'm going, you're wrong."

Chasing him around the place? What has this boy done! Am I sharing a room with some sort of felon? Oh, and he's coming closer to me! But I can't leave-- where would I go, and however would Pansy find me? Perhaps if I sit in silence…

"What's your name?" the boy asks.

I sigh in defeat. "Jade," I tell him.

"What a boring name," he says. "Did your father sell himself to get you those clothes?"

I bite my tongue to keep from answering. Of all the uncouth, irresponsible, _moronic_ \--

"You think fancy robes and hair combs and things are going to net you the Prince's son? You think men like rubbish like that? Pretty clothes to disguise an empty brain? You're stupid," he says. "You're all stupid."

I clear my throat. "Pardon my speech," I murmur, sure to keep my voice low and womanly despite my boiling rage, "but are you suggesting that I wear clothing more like your own?"

He laughs. "I slept in it in the back of a restaurant last night. Clothing doesn't make the man," he tells me.

I tip my chin, and my earrings sway, my fingers traveling to the sash around my waist. "On that sentiment, we are surely in agreement." Now if you would kindly _leave my sight_ post-haste…

"So what does make the man?" he asks. "That's what I've been wondering."

"I'm sure a woman wouldn't know," I say, "though since you have asked, I would venture… dignity, propriety, and respect, to name a few. Now, if you please, someone shall be here for me soon, and it wouldn't do for us to be seen together. Perhaps, in the name these esteemed manly qualities which I have noted, you might--"

"Hey, you're not so bad after all," he says, and places his horrifying and likely lice infested self beside me on the couch. "You can talk to men without stuttering, that's useful. And you're actually kind of pretty. It's too bad your face is all pointy like that. Has your whole family got that chin?"

Appalled beyond words and so infuriated that my jaw hurts, it takes a moment for me to collect my thoughts. "I have been very patient with your insolence, _peasant_ , but if you think for one moment that I shall disregard ill words towards my _family_ , that thing which is most close to my heart, you have--" 

"Do you know _The Peony Pavilion_?" he asks. "It's an opera."

"I know it's an opera, I've _read_ it!" I exclaim. "It's the most romantic thing ever written! I have the final scene _memorized_! Now get out of my _sight_!"

"Hey, show me your feet," he says. His hands go to the hem of my Hanfu. I squeal in a way which must be most unbecoming and try to keep him from pulling back the fabric. He pushes my hands away, and I swat at his fingers, the noise sharp in the still of the room, but to no avail.

"Whoa!" he exclaims. "You can _walk_ on those?"

"Pervert! Get your dirty hands _off_ me!" I order, and do my best to shove him away. 

He laughs and shoves back. With a squeak, I slip backwards on the couch and find myself propped against the armrest, my neck bent at an uncomfortable angle. When I try to pull myself up again, he's holding me down. 

"Let _go_!" I hiss.

He doesn't let go. Instead, he takes my shoulders and slides me across the couch so that my head rests on a pillow. His fingertips run across my collarbone, and he leans over me.

Before I know what I'm doing, I slap him.

My hand stings, and I stare at it in shock as though it's not mine. As I'm not truly a girl, I'm in no danger, yet I lashed out. Or did I? Could my smooth-skinned, elegant, well-bred hand truly slap someone? Even if that someone is the most uncivilized brute I've ever met? 

Above me, the boy makes a noise, and I look up at him. He touches his cheek, on which a welt the size of my palm is rising. He blinks at his fingers as though he can't believe my hand could do such a thing, either. And then he looks at me.

His face is smooth and unblemished, a touch of sun lighting his cheekbones. White teeth like pearls rest behind his parted lips. The green of my hair comb reflects in his eyes, brilliant and shining in their depths. 

So handsome. 

My heart skips a beat.

With a slowness that tugs at my every nerve, he brings his lips to my cheek. His breath puffs against my skin, mouth sliding across and pressing below my ear. Warm and soft, his lips trail down my neck, and I gasp at the sensation, unable to move a muscle.

And then my hand-- the same one that slapped him-- wraps itself around his neck.

This is insanity! I've lost my mind; my body is doing things beyond my control! I am shaming myself with this servant boy and bringing disgrace to my family! The thought chokes me, and I turn my head when he brings his lips to mine. 

"Kiss me," he whispers. His lips brush the corner of my mouth, and I shiver.

His fingers slide down the front of my robes. 

My head spins, and I grasp his wrist, but it's too late. He's felt what I hide beneath the padded silk, or rather, what I don't: no soft female breasts, no warm flesh to cup in his hand, only the hard planes of my chest and nubs of nipples. 

I hide nothing.

He swallows, his throat making a strange clicking noise. He pulls his hand from my Hanfu, and I squeeze my eyes shut against the sight of him. 

What he finds next is not my fault. I'm a healthy young man with a warm body leaning over me, a mouth on my neck, and hand sliding against my bare skin. My body's reacted of its own accord! It would happen to any man!

But I'm not supposed to be a man. 

His hand between my legs is warm and firm, and he grips me through the fabric, as though testing the feel. It's like nothing I've ever felt before, and I hear myself whimper, wanting desperately for him to stop. 

Yet somehow, a strange little part of me wishes wouldn't. 

Thus, I do the only thing I can: with all my strength, I knee him in the groin.

He makes a choked sounding noise, rolling off me and clutching himself between his legs. He slides to the floor groaning, his face an indeterminate shade of puce, eyes squeezed shut in agony. 

I try to work up the saliva to spit on him, but my mouth is dry. I clap my hand over it, horrified with my very existence, and flee the room.

As I step past him, his hand darts out and grabs my foot.

I scream and barely catch myself from falling. He tugs at me, fingers biting into my ankle, and I try to kick off his hand. As I pull free, my shoe comes off in his grasp, skittering across the floor, but it can't be helped. I escape as quickly as my ridiculous feet will carry me, winding through the mazelike corridors of the palace before I find someone who can direct me to the litters. I arrive breathless and disheveled.


	2. Chapter 2

Surrounded by course looking men, Pansy sits on the ground with a glass, laughing like an idiot. "And so I tell him, 'Peach blossom? You call yourself a poet, and the best you can come up with is _peach blossom_? I'm going to have to charge you another twenty for that!' And can you believe it, he _paid_!"

The men chortle and raise their glasses.

"Oi! Pour me some more!" Pansy slurs.

I grab her by the hair and pull her to her feet. "We're _going_!" I hiss. "Get the litter bearers!"

"Get the _what_?" she squeaks.

The only good thing about her vomiting over the side of the palanquin on the way home is that she doesn't notice my missing shoe.

I can't get it out of my head.

What's worse, I can't get that boy out of it either. He's a heavy weight in my chest, an ache in my soul. What if he tells about me, about what I really am, and everyone finds out? I'll be a laughing stock, and Father will be disgraced and ashamed! If the Prince catches wind, he'll probably come to claim me and put me to work in the fields! I'll die!

I feel wretched and ill. Nothing eases the ache, not reading, not embroidery, not music, not dancing, not even binding my feet so tightly, they go numb.

Everything is that stupid boy's fault!

And what's worse, I dream of him, his deep eyes, the feel of his lips against my skin. I force myself to stay awake, only to have daydreams filled with the same tingling sensations. One evening, I think of what might have happened had he kissed me and nearly choke on my jasmine tea.

When I stop eating, Grandfather gives me concerned looks, mentioning a new book he's thinking of buying me. The servants stay clear of me, knowing the tongue lashing they'll receive should they get in my way. My step-sister tries to cheer me up by painting me flowers. I tell her she's the worst painter I've ever met, and a two year old could paint better blindfolded with the brush between her toes.

She sobs into her mother's robes.

"You've really sunk to a new low this time, Jade," Pansy tells me, patting her on the back. "There, there, dear, don't cry…"

I think of the servant boy's ill manicured hand between my legs and that part of me that didn't want him to stop, and I scarcely make it to my room before bursting into tears myself.

What is wrong with me? Why have I turned into such a shameful, wanton creature? 

I lean out my window and try desperately to relax. My hair waves in the breeze, and I think of what a dramatic picture I would paint should some man walk past. He would surely fall in love with my miserable tears, the pink flush across my cheeks. Though merely speaking to me is forbidden, he'd want to whisk me away to parts unknown and kiss the salt from my eyes.

And then cut off my head once he realized his mistake.

Being beautiful is such a burden!

I wipe my eyes, and a sparrow comes to rest on the windowsill. I sigh and shoo at it, but the tiny thing merely hops over my fingers.

"You didn't have to go and eat me," it says.

I scream and nearly fall out the window.

In a man's voice, the sparrow tells me, "Don't pretend you usually eat your own goldfish. You're so melodramatic, I swear." It glides into my room. 

I swallow and venture, "Black?"

"Do you believe me now?" it asks. "That I'm here to help you, that I truly am your guardian?"

"My guardian!" I exclaim. "My _guardian_! Fat lot of good your help has done me! I've never been in such trouble in my life!"

"Didn't I help out with the shoes?" it asks.

"You can't be serious! The shoes made me miserable, I hate them! And I refuse to hold a conversation with a bird!" I proclaim, and turn my back to demonstrate my displeasure.

"Those shoes will bring you fortune and happiness," the bird says. "Mark my words!"

"Well then it's a shame I've only got one of them now!" I declare, flinching when I realize I've spoken with the thing when I just said I wouldn't.

"Don't worry," says Black, "you'll get it back from the boy."

My jaw drops, and the bird hops around me so that it rests by my feet. Its little sparrow beak moves as though it were chirping as it says, "I know all about him, Jade. What he did to you and how he makes you feel… I know everything about you…"

Furious, I kick at the thing. When it rises into the air, wings fluttering, I bat at it with my hands. "Get out!" I shriek. "Get _out_!"

It looses a string of profanities that scald my ears and finally flies out the window.

I stand in my room panting, sweat beading on my forehead. I wipe at it and the remainders of my tears, and decide that I have only one option: I must write to Father.

I make the letter as cutting as I can, calling him a liar and a cheat and a scoundrel, and proclaim myself the most unhappy child to have ever suffered to be born upon this earth. Then, feeling a bit better, I burn the letter to ashes and compose a real one. I write as though a dutiful daughter seeking advice on life and love. Reading it, no one would guess the truth.

 _My only desire is your happiness, Father. Please help me to make you proud_ , I say in closing.

Satisfied that my propriety has been thus returned to me, I fold the letter and head to Grandfather's library to have him send it. 

Halfway down the hallway, the talk of two servants-- old biddies scrubbing the floors-- stops me in my tracks. 

"The Prince's son?" one of them says. "Are you sure?"

"Came straight from May, and she swears it on her soul," the other responds. "Seems he's so taken by one of the ladies he met at the Festival, he's turned into a model son to win her heart. The Prince has named him heir!"

"Who would've guessed it was possible? Is she quite beautiful, this girl? She must be! The things that boy got up to…"

"The most beautiful girl anyone's ever seen, from what May hears. Skin like porcelain, voice like a song, and the smallest feet you'll ever see." The woman sighs. "So romantic!"

"Oh, it is! But however did it happen?"

"Well now, it's quite a story! The Prince's son was being stubborn, as you can guess. The matchmakers were setting aside girls they thought suited his tastes and sneaking him in for a peek at them, hoping one of them caught his fancy. He kept running off, and the servants had to chase him down!"

The other woman tut-tuts at such behavior.

"They thought they'd lost him for good-- the eunuchs were all in tears, poor things!-- when he stumbled into the room saying he'd met his one true love!"

Something about this story seems off, and I bite at my lip in puzzlement.

"Will the wedding be soon?" the other woman asks.

"Well, that's the thing-- as far as anyone can tell, he doesn't even know who the girl is!"

She gasps. "But how can he not know!"

"Seems he was so struck by her beauty, he forgot her name! It was some common, dull name nearly every girl has nowadays, and it completely slipped his mind! And the young lady, very proper girl that she is, left him almost immediately for fear of becoming too familiar! Can you imagine?"

"My goodness, no! But how shall he ever find her if he doesn't even know her name?"

"Well, he has something nearly as good as a name, or so May tells me. Seems when the beauty left, she was in such a state that she lost a shoe!"

The letter in my hand drops to the ground. My fingers rise to my mouth. A shoe? She lost a _shoe_?

"Sole of pure gold, most beautiful embroidered roses ever stitched," the woman assures. "All he's got to do is find out what girl it belongs to. I'm sure she'll step forward soon. Who wouldn't want to marry a future Prince?"

The world twirls around me, and I stagger against the wall. _That_ boy is the Prince's son? How is this possible? And why would he seek me out when he knows… when he's felt…

The color drains from my face. 

He must be looking to arrest me! I've made a fool of him, and he wants revenge! I'll be banished to Manchuria, my genitals will be cut off, and as half a man, I'll be doomed to live my next life as a she-mule!

But then why has the boy changed his behavior? Why has he reformed and been named heir? It can't all be a ruse!

Does he not understand? Was he so caught up in the moment that he didn't realize?

But no, that's impossible. He knew. He had to know.

Or is he just that stupid?

Scooping my letter up off the floor with shaky fingers, I return to my room, tossing the paper onto my writing table. I lie down on the bed, arm thrown over my face, trying to calm myself. 

Things are better this way, really, I tell myself. It makes sense that the boy is nobility, as my Father's son could never have a taste for servants. I'm nothing like Pansy, working up a desire for any man who crosses my path. And I'll hardly come forward to claim the shoe, so I have nothing to worry about. In his search, he'll certainly find some other girl that pleases him just as much and forget all about me. I'm safe. Everything will be fine.

Oh, who am I kidding? No girl can compete with me! He'll search until the ends of the earth to find me, go door to door if he has to! And who but I could fit into such a tiny shoe?

I'm doomed!

Above me, the sound of fluttering wings cuts the silence.

"If you insist upon torturing me with your presence, at least find a more suitable guise," I order it. "I am very distraught at this particular moment, and I refuse to speak to such a _common_ bird as a sparrow!"

I hear a groan, and the thing flies from the room. I close my eyes and drift into a fitful sleep.

The song of a nightingale wakes me, beautiful and melodic to my ears despite the hour. My room is dark, the moon my only light as it shines through my window. It lends an eerie glow to the night.

The bird perches on my windowsill.

"Is this any better?" it asks.

I sigh, wiping the sleep from my eyes. "I suppose."

"You know, you're not making this very easy," Black tells me, gliding from the window to the latticework on my bed. "Becoming an animal is tricky business."

"Terribly sorry to _inconvenience_ you," I drawl, sarcasm palpable.

"Look, I've got all the time in the world. I'm _dead_ ," he says. "You, on the other hand, are going to have to make some quick decisions, here. It would be best if you'd just give in and meet with a matchmaker about the Prince's son--"

"Absolutely _not_!" I hiss.

"--but considering you don't seem to be a fan of that idea, I've got another for you. In a week or so, the Prince is going to order all unmarried Han women of marriageable age to visit the palace--"

"No!" I squeak. "He can't!"

"--and you'll have to go. If you truly want to escape the boy and never see him again--"

"I _do_!" I insist. "Of _course_ I want to escape him!"

"--then you'll do exactly as I say. Now listen closely: when you go to the Palace, wear fine clothing, but nothing fancy. No embroidery, no jewelry, nothing to set you apart from the other girls. When you come before the Prince and his son, say nothing, bow, and when they're distracted, make your exit as though they've dismissed you," he instructs. "And for the sake of every person on your family's Ancestor Tablet, do _not_ , under any circumstances--"

"What about my shoes?" I ask. "Which shoes should I wear?"

Black clears his throat. "Look, if you interrupt me one more time, I'm going to peck your eyes out. I'm trying to help you here. The shoes aren't important, just wear robes long enough to cover them. And whatever you do, Jade, I beg of you, _stay away from the soldiers_!"

I roll over, shoving my face into the bedding. "Tell me this is all a nightmare," I moan. "My life is such misery…"

"Why do I have the feeling this is going to turn out badly?" Black mutters, and then flies back out my window.

The next morning, Pansy is unwrapping the old binding cloth from my feet, and I tell her what I overheard the servants saying. I do my best to keep my voice casual.

"Old news," she tells me, the strip of cloth wound around her fingers. "You're really behind on your gossip."

"Proper ladies don't gossip, it's undignified. How shall he find the girl?" I ask. "They say he doesn't even know her name!"

She shrugs and dips my foot into the scented water. Her hands scrubs away the dead skin, which flakes off and turns the water cloudy white. "What concern is it of yours?" she asks.

"If even the servants are talking about it, it seems that I should know," I tell her. "You know I detest ignorance."

"Servants talk all sorts of rubbish, can't keep their fool mouths shut. You trust them with so much as the color of your underwear, and half the Banner knows what you've got under your robes. Alright, foot up," she instructs.

I sigh and place my foot in her lap. She towels it dry, clips my toenails, and files away any bone that has poked through the skin, then applies oils to stave off unhealthy influences. I watch closely to be sure that she properly prepares the spot between the ball of my foot and my heel, where my folded-up arch has formed a deep crease.

"If they have such big mouths, then why have they never talked about me?" I ask. "Surely a girl with certain masculine… _characteristics_ would make a noteworthy tale." Honestly, I'm a bit offended. Am I not deserving of their gossip?

"Oh, one of them did when you were small," she assures me. "Your grandfather had his tongue cut out and sold him into hard labor."

Yes, Grandfather always has been one for swift retribution. As Pansy rebinds my foot with a new cloth, jarring the deformed appendage painfully with her tight jerks, I try to imagine how it must feel to have one's tongue cut out.

It makes me smile.

A week later, my summons arrives from the Imperial Prince. 

I do as Black told me and wear unembroidered silk, a deep purple Hanfu I've found amongst the belongings of one of Grandfather's concubines. When Father was small, before the Manchu had taken total control, Grandfather used to have dozens of concubines, but he only has six left. I don't see much of them, as Step-Grandmother terrifies them.

The robes are old but fine, and smell of lilacs and old woman. Step-Grandmother laughs as she watches me put them on, though her eyes are unfocused, so I doubt she realizes what she's laughing at. 

I pull the fabric tight about my chest; I've sewn padding into some old underclothing, and it's no feat of the imagination to envision a female figure beneath the cloth. In such an outfit, the heir will never recognize me.

Pansy laughs her head off.

"But honestly, you're not going out in that, are you?" she asks, wiping away tears of malicious glee. "The cut of that thing makes you look like a toothless old crone. That silk must've been spun during the reign of Ming Shenzong!"

"I am demonstrating my extensive modesty," I tell her, and slide a hair pin with cinnabar beads dangling from it into my hair. The matching earrings are nearly unnoticeable. "I won't appear flamboyant before our Banner's Prince."

"Yeah, good luck with that," she tells me, and sways off to heartlessly harass some other poor soul.

* * * * * 

A myriad of eunuchs, bloated and untrustworthy looking, watch over the queue of girls outside the Imperial Banner Palace's Hall of Harmony. I've read about them but have never seen one, a man with his maleness lopped off to ensure he poses no threat to the women he watches over. 

I can't help but think of how messy it would be to pour tea from a pot without a spout. 

By listening to the conversations floating about the room, I've learned that we're standing at the entry to the Prince's throne room. He, along with his wife and son, shall examine each girl as she enters. My nervousness is shared by all.

"I have to pee," the girl ahead of me whispers. She looks ten, at the most. "I really, _really_ have to go!"

An older girl beside her who wears similar clothing shushes her. "You just went. It's nerves!"

"No, Autumn, I really have to go!" the girl insists.

"Don't call me that!" the elder hisses back. "My name is _Lotus_ now, and so is yours! The girl he wants has a _common_ name, you won't even get a glance from him if you tell him you're called Amaranth!"

"But I don't _want_ a glance from him! I just want to _pee_!" the girl sniffs. 

I feel a bit bad for her, but considering I haven't got a chamber pot shoved up my robes, there's nothing I can do. I try my best to ignore her and lower my eyes to my dragon embroidered shoes, which peek out from beneath my robes. I've patched them, and they look good as new. Better, maybe, now that I've added clever little heels to make myself seem taller. I've been standing for what feels like forever though, and my feet ache inside them.

Amaranth bursts into tears. "I just _peed_ myself, Autumn! I _told_ you I had to go!"

Autumn utters several words which a lady shouldn't even know, much less repeat, and hauls the other girl off.

I find myself at the front of the line, facing the doors to the Hall of Harmony. 

Carved into the wood are the symbols for _Concord_ and _Prosperity_. I contemplate them until a eunuch ushers me in, his saggy skin old and leathery, and closes the doors behind us.

I repeat to myself what Black told me: stay silent, bow, and then leave when they're distracted. I take a deep breath. I can do this. How hard could it be?

The eunuch stops, motioning for me to do the same. He bows, and I follow suit. With my eyes to the floor, I can't see anything beyond the carpets on which we stand. They're woven through with signs of peace and tranquility.

Clearing his throat, the eunuch announces in his odd timbre, "Your Imperial Majesty, may I present--"

"That's _not_ HER!" a voice exclaims.

My face heats as I recognize it for his, the Prince's heir: the boy with a proclivity for putting his hands down maidens' robes. Or maybe not _maidens'_ , so much as…

"Would you calm down," a deeper voice commands. "You haven't even spoken with her yet!"

"Father, this is a waste of time! It's not her, look at those dull clothes!" the boy protests. "My girl wears the most beautiful silks in the land! And a cloak stitched with gold! And, and--"

I'm not sure whether to be annoyed that he hasn't recognized my beauty beneath the clothing, or proud that I've disguised myself so well. Perhaps having mixed feelings is most appropriate.

I start when I hear a female voice proclaim, "Oh, just have her try on the bloody shoe, already! Here, come and get the thing, servant. Why my son can't settle down with a nice _Manchu_ girl is beyond me. If you'd only stayed put during the Festival instead of running all over the Palace like a-- _don't_ you give me that look! We had forty eunuchs out searching for--"

"Mother, _please_!" the heir pleads. "You're the one who wanted me to find a wife, and… I've never felt this way before! If I don't have her, I swear to you, I'll _die_! My _yang_ will bubble up and overflow!"

"If I have to listen to you complain about your _yang_ one more time," his mother begins.

"All right, everyone," says the deeper voice which must belong to the Prince. "Let's just settle down. I know it's been a long month and we're all tired, but this will end eventually, I swear to you. Everything will be fine. And stop talking about _yang_ in front of your mother, Albus."

Albus? _That's_ the Prince's heir's name? How hideous! It must be Manchu. What does it mean? 

As I wallow in bafflement, the eunuch, who left my side when the Prince's shrieking wife beckoned, returns. He holds out my mother's shoe, gold and brilliant and none the worse for the wear, which rests on a small, embroidered pillow. 

I take it in my hand.

"All I'm saying is, I need some feminine _yin_ to match it up with," the heir-- Albus-- announces. "Even after the acupuncture, my levels are still all wonky! The doctor said it could lead to kidney problems!"

"Alright, that's it!" his mother announces. "I'm not going to be part of this until you learn to watch your mouth. And _cut your hair_!"

The Prince sighs.

"But I'm in _mourning_!" Albus exclaims.

"Oh, don't give me that! You couldn't stand the sight of your brother!" his mother shouts.

"Well, now that I don't have to _look_ at him, I like him just fine!" Albus shouts back.

"Does anyone else find it ironic that this room is called the Hall of Harmony?" the Prince asks.

" _NO!_ " the other two shout back.

"Didn't think so," he mutters.

"Unless you can give me a damned good reason not to, I'm leaving," his wife tells him. The fact that she would dare to speak to her husband in such a way appalls me. In fact, their whole method of familial interaction is entirely unpardonable. Has there ever been such a dysfunctional family in all of China?

I wonder, though, if this was the moment Black was talking about: the moment they're too distracted to notice I've walked out the door. It must be.

Silently as a mouse, I place Mother's shoe back on the pillow in the eunuch's gnarled hands.

"Fine," Albus is saying as my lotus feet pad across the carpet. "Just go, Mother, see if I care! It's not like you're missing anything! Every girl we've seen today has been stupid, ugly, and poor!"

I pause. _Every_ girl?

"I keep _telling_ you," his mother answers, "all of these Han girls are worthless! They have no dignity, no respect for their parents, no wit, no self-discipline--"

 _Excuse_ me?

Albus groans. "Okay, okay! Fine, you win! Send the Han girls away and start parading some Manchu ones in front of me! I'm sure they'll be _way_ better than the one I picked out!"

How dare he. Better than me? How _dare_ he!

"Albus," his father says.

"No, no, it's fine! I'm sure any one will do. The one I met isn't so special. She's not worth a Banner-wide search. She's not even worth a second thought!"

"I don't appreciate your tone, young man!" his mother exclaims.

"Don't worry, I've got it all figured out, Mother. The only girl I've _ever_ wanted isn't worthy to kiss your shoes! I'll bet she serves in teahouses, her father rents her out to them, she goes with _sailors_ when he's strapped for cash…"

Shaking with fury, I clench my fists inside the sleeves of my Hanfu. No one disrespects my father, _no one_! My vision red, I glare up at the awful trio. 

On a massive throne in the middle of the room sits a man who must be the Prince. He wears elegant, multicolored robes, and a tasseled hat on his head. Crystal lens spectacles rest heavily upon his nose, the famed scar crossing his forehead. To his right sits a woman with angry red cheeks and the most ridiculous headdress I've ever seen. Her hair is pulled into a bun on top of her head and covered by black silk with a massive peony sprouting from it like another head. 

On the other side of the Prince sits his son.

His trousers are riding up, bare skin of his ankle showing, and his tunic is hanging crooked off one shoulder. He slouches in his chair chewing at a fingernail, features twisted into a look of annoyance. Falling about his face, his hair is the same blatant and mind-searing travesty as before.

My eyes fill with tears because he's the most perfect thing I've ever seen.

Making my way back to the eunuch, I grab Mother's shoe and chuck it at his face.

Ever since my youthful days of throwing stones at Grandfather's dogs, I've had a good arm, and my aim is dead on. The shoe with its heavy sole of pure gold shoots like an arrow through the air. It hits the idiot directly in the forehead.

His head jerks back, and he blinks blankly at nothing like Step-Grandmother does so often. A welt rises over one eyebrow. He brings his fingers to it.

I hear gasps, and someone shouting, but I'm too infuriated to care. 

When his eyes find mine, deep and liquid, I feel that frisson of strange emotion run through me and find it hard to catch my breath. My heart feels as though it's trying to escape my chest. I could nearly swoon. This makes me even angrier, and, with no other recourse, I take a shoe off my foot and hurl it at him.

Light with a sole of leather and wood, it falls short, landing at his feet like a wounded bird.

"It's you," he says. "It's really-- this is _her_ , Father! This is-- Jade! Jade, marry me!"

I clap my hand to my mouth, horrified, and dash out of the room. Or rather hobble, crippled and off balance in one heeled shoe. Albus is screaming my name, following close behind me, and my entry into the waiting hall is met with girlish screeches and squeals in equal measure. I weave through the throng of women, ducking my head to use them as a human shield.

"Jade! Jade, please! Wait, don't go!" Albus pleads.

I look over my shoulder to see him wading through people as though a rice field, stuck up to his knees in muck. I can make it, I tell myself, and then the nightmare will be over. I'm nearly there. Just a bit further, beyond the crowd, out the doorway and around the corner, my palanquin is waiting!

I turn the corner, tasting freedom with the outdoor air, and run straight into a body. I shriek and am only saved from falling by his arm, which grabs me around the waist.

"I'm so sorry!" I gasp. "Please, I must go!"

"I think not," he tells me, taking firm hold of my arm.

He's a soldier, that much I can tell by his clothing, but an elderly one, and from his looks, not well. His grey hair in its queue is greasy and lank, dead ends sticking out the sides of the plait. His eyes are dark and cold, face marked with scars which must be from smallpox, and lips set into a permanent scowling grimace. 

I try to look away, but can't. I know who this man is! His story is known throughout China by Han and Manchu alike as a tale of vengeance and romance! 

After the death of the first Manchu Emperor, a group of Han who opposed Manchu rule banded together, seeking to overthrow the new Emperor, whose rule they judged weak and vulnerable. With the army they raised, these Han wreaked havoc upon the Manchu, leaving murmured and fearful stories of retribution in their wake.

They called themselves the Flight of Death.

One man in particular was so feared by the Manchu that although everyone knows his name, even now, no one dares speak it. He was the Ming Dynasty's last hope for reprisal, and the Manchu's worst fear. A military genius, he left behind him piles of Manchu dead, burning entire cities to the ground. 

We refer to him only as He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. 

One night, he and his troops attacked a village in which a certain potter lived with his family. The man was Han, but he had taken a Manchu woman as his wife, one rumored to be of great beauty and wit who was adored by all. Her name was Lily. 

Stories like these angered He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. The vengeful man hated the dirtying of our bloodlines by the intruders and was determined to kill the potter.

And kill him he did: once inside his home, he drew his sword and sliced off his head in front of his wife and young son. He laughed at the terrified screams of the wife, and tears of the child. His second in command and most trusted ally, the Captain of the Spearmen, laughed beside him.

Having heard whispers from others of the Flight of Death's attacks, the wife of the murdered potter knew her fate. Captured women were handed over to the soldiers and then, if they survived their treatment, were sold into servitude, broken and used. However, when she threw herself at the feet of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, she begged not for her own freedom, but for that of her son. 

"Please spare him," she beseeched, lying at his feet. "Do what you will to me, but don't harm my son, I beg of you!"

Perhaps she thought to touch the man's heart, but it was hardened by the atrocities of war and hateful toward her undisciplined feet. He ordered the spearman to kill the boy.

As the man drew his weapon, however, the woman wrested it from his hands and stabbed it through her own breast. She would not shame her husband by having her purity sullied by his murderers, nor her son by having such a shameful woman as a mother. Instead, she fell to the floor, blade piercing her chest.

He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named laughed. To him, Manchu women had no value, were less than nothing, and preserving her reputation was a joke.

The Spearmen Captain thought differently. 

He admired the woman's selfless gesture despite her Manchu bloodlines. Never having witnessed an act of such bravery, he was held in awe. As a pool of blood formed beneath her dying body, she shed not a single tear, and he lamented the fact that a woman of such quality should meet such a fate. She breathed her last breath, and her dying eyes caught his, full of strength and resolve, shimmering like the most brilliant emerald, and the man fell deeply in love with her. 

At that moment, he recognized his own wickedness.

Turning to He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, he sought to tell him this, but the man would not listen. He had been too twisted by hatred to see the truth. He held the child, screaming and struggling, in his grasp and drew his sword. 

"And now to finish the task," he said, or something of the like.

Driven by his love, the Captain could not allow the woman's child to be murdered. He pulled his blade from the woman's body in a shower of blood, and drove it through the evil man's back.

The next part is unclear. I don't know how the tale has reached us, whose mouths and how many retellings it has seen. Perhaps the spearman himself does not know the truth. It is obvious that the child lived, sustaining a mere cut to his forehead. But whether that wound was from the sword of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named or his savior's weapon, having pierced clear through its target's body with the force of its bearer's thrust, no one can say.

In any case, the spearman, having killed his liege, fled with the child. Fearing for his life if his countrymen were to discover what he had done, he brought the boy to the Emperor's court and told his tale. There, he was granted honors and acclaim, never renouncing his love for the potter's wife or taking a wife of his own. In fact, it is rumored that the man's devotion is so strong that he's never so much as visited a teahouse.

Later, the child of the woman he loved went on to win the confidence of the Emperor and be named the Prince of our Banner. The diviners prophesy that he shall bring about peace. The spearman came with him to counsel his rule. Though they say he is the least attractive of men, I've never imagined that a man who can love so deeply could be so hideous. 

Could it be that they don't allow him into the teahouses?

"And just what are _you_ supposed to be?" he demands, jerking me out of my reverie. The foul odor of his rotting teeth wafts on his breath.

"Please," I tell him, trying to yank out of his grip, "I am _so_ sorry, but I must go--"

He pulls me closer, puts his twisted lips to my ear. "Your breasts have fallen to your waist!" he hisses. 

I squeak and look down at the twin bulges near my stomach. My underclothing must have come untied as I ran! I reach into my robes and pull it up, feeling I could die of embarrassment.

"Jade!"

I groan at the sound of Albus's voice. 

"Is this the creature that's been causing such a stir?" the lovelorn soldier demands.

"Jade!" Albus exclaims. "I've been combing the countryside for you, I want you as my bride! Why didn't you come forward? Won't your parents allow it? Please, I just--"

I don't look at him, instead shooting the soldier a glare to match his own. I yank at my arm, but he still holds tight. "Have you lost your _mind_?" I demand.

"Please!" he begs. "I worship you! I'm groveling at your feet! Look at me, Jade!"

"I can't _marry_ you!" I exclaim. "That's… _insane_!"

"How could you say that? Of course you can! You must! Please, I'll have Father offer a massive bride price, the biggest in history!" he urges. "I've got to have you, you're the only girl for me!" 

"I'm _not a girl_!" I hiss.

He makes a noise in his throat. "What are you talking about? You're the most perfect girl I've ever met!"

I turn to him, baffled, frustrated, and humiliated, only to find that he's prostrated himself at my feet, as one would for the Emperor himself. His forehead is planted in the dirt. In each of his hands, he holds one of my shoes. "Stop it! Please get up!" I order, thankful no one else is here to see such a shameful act. "And kindly relinquish my footwear!"

"Please!" he repeats. "My _yang_ yearns for you!"

The soldier leans down and smacks him across the back of the head. "All right, this nonsense has gone on long enough. The Heir Presumptive shall stand up-- now, Albus!" he commands, "--and return these shoes to the young… lady… whom I shall thereafter escort to her litter."

The boy stood on command, but regards the shoes with a look of longing. "But you don't understand! I'm lost without her, she's my soulma--"

"ENOUGH! Today's theatrics are officially concluded!" he declares. And with that, the spearman grabs my shoes, stuffs them down my Hanfu, and pulls me in the direction of the litters.

"Oh, thank you ever so much!" I gush, tottering beside him. "You've truly saved me! How can I ever repay you for--"

"I have done nothing to help you, and your gratitude is thus unnecessary. I only wanted the heir to shut his idiot mouth," he growls. "You young people are so self-centered these days!"

"I do apologize, but I promise you that _I_ am the very definition of modesty! I find myself horribly embarrassed to be the cause of all this fuss! You see, I meant not to come here at all, but I received a summons, so I had no choice!" I explain, voice unsteady from my jarring steps.

"We shall see about that," he tells me. "I'll have a word with your grandfather."

With my… "You know my grandfather? But how? He doesn't speak to members of the Manchu--"

He stops so short that I stumble, his grip on my arm the only thing keeping me on my feet. He pulls me in, face mere inches from mine, and stares me straight in the eye. I try to look away, as this is _highly_ irregular, but he's nearly jerking my shoulder out of its socket. At length, he asks, "So you claim to know nothing of his plans?" 

"Whose plans? Grandfather's? What does he have plans for?" I babble, my bottom lip starting to tremble. I've remembered something Black told me, a warning I'd forgot as quickly as I learned it: _stay away from the soldiers_!

"I'm as pure as the driven snow," I murmur, voice shaking. "I know nothing, I swear to you…"

The man's grip loosens, and I breathe a sigh of relief. He offers a curt nod and turns on his heel toward the palace, leaving my question about Grandfather's plans to dangle unanswered in the air.

How rude.

I sigh and straighten my underclothes, which have fallen yet again, and fish my dragon shoe out of my robes. My feet are throbbing, and my left ankle is stiff, but I'm so tired that I fall asleep on the palanquin straightaway. 

The litter bearer who so likes me carries me inside, and Pansy has him set me on my bed.

"Are you in some sort of trouble?" she asks when he's left. "You haven't insulted anyone important, have you?"

"Tired," I tell her, yawning. "Please go away."

I feel her hand on my forehead, and then her lips on my cheek. "Brat," she says. "Sleep well."

The next morning, I decide to forget the entire affair. Grandfather shall settle matters, so I have nothing to worry about. He'd never hand me over to such an ill-bred ruffian! Imagine, falling to the dirt at my feet, begging for my hand in marriage! So uncouth! And a Manchu to boot!

A tiny sliver of me, which I've come to strongly dislike, aches at the romance of it all-- searching the entire countryside for your long lost love-- but I beat that sliver into place as though with a hammer.

My feet still hurt a bit, so I have a servant bring up breakfast, tea and rice porridge with candied fruits, and dine on my bed. I don't think about Albus and how he's feeling right now, if he likes porridge and how he takes his tea. I don't. At all. Not even for one second.

I don't.

In fact, I'm so distracted by not thinking of him (and the way his tongue would run across his lips to savor the last taste of his meal, especially if it were _my_ cooking) that I don't notice I have a visitor until I hear the tongue lapping at my tea.

Our watchdog snorts and shoves his stubby little nose into the cup, tail wagging. I laugh and pet the thing, digging my fingernails into its fur, getting a good scratch in. Tea forgotten, it grunts and wiggles its little bum.

"Silly thing. How did you get in here?" I giggle.

"Wasn't that hard," it tells me.

I sigh and draw my hand away. "So you're doing canines now, Black?"

"They're my specialty, actually," he tells me. "Though I'm thinking of giving up this whole guardian thing. Is there some reason you've decided to ignore basically everything I told you to do?"

"I have no idea what you're talking about," I declare. "And I can't believe you licked my teacup!"

"Better than licking my own arse," he tells me.

"There's no call for such talk in front of a lady!" I scold.

He sighs. "You're not a-- look, I told you to keep a low profile and stay away from soldiers at all cost, and what do you do? You _throw a shoe_ at the Imperial Prince's heir and get your secret discovered by--"

"He insulted my father! Was I just supposed to let him say such things?" I ask, feeling insulted.

"Yes! Yes, you were! And now you've got yourself into a hell of a mess, and--"

"Fine! I didn't want your help in the first place! You forced it on me!" I exclaim. "I appreciate your attempts, but I am perfectly capable of managing my life on my own, thank you very much! Please leave!"

He gives a little doggy grunt and hops down off my mattress. "This is what I think of you managing your own life," he announces, and lifts his leg on the bed frame.

I shriek and nearly fall on my face trying to shoo the creature. "Bad dog!" I yell. "No!"

"What a waste of an afterlife. I'm out of here," Black snorts. "Come see me when you come to your senses."

"If it means listening to you again, I'll never come to my senses! And now my room smells like _dog piss_!" I cry.

I call in a servant to clean it up, but the scent lingers in my nostrils.

* * * * * 

Grandfather has been terribly busy lately, and I'm pleased when calls me to his library one evening. Even with his hair in its silly queue, he looks so regal in his silver Hanfu, and scholarly amongst the stacks of books. 

I'd like to offer a bit of comfort, and I wonder if he'd like me to play the zither for him. When I was younger, I would sing and play often, and he always told me the sound calmed him. Of course I can't sing any longer, my voice now far too deep to feign femininity on such an occasion, but I practice my playing often, and I'm still very skillful.

When I ask him, though, he shakes his head and tells me to sit. "We need to discuss your future, Jade, and with hands as large as yours, the zither shall not be part of it."

I dip my head, ashamed. My sleeves usually cover to my fingers, but one pulls them back to play. What embarrassment it would cause Grandfather to witness such an inelegant spectacle! And I thought he would enjoy it! How foolish I am!

"Several days ago," Grandfather tells me, voice low, "I received a proposal of marriage for you. It came on behalf of the heir of the Imperial Prince."

I wince and bite my bottom lip.

"Of course I wrote a letter back directly stating that the offered bride price was far too low," Grandfather continues. "I informed the Prince that my granddaughter is my most precious possession and not about to be bartered away for a few shiny stones and bolts of silk."

Relief washes over me. "Oh, thank you, Grandfather!" I tell him. "You are too kind to me!"

His expression, however, remains unchanged, serious and distant. "The very next day, I received another offer. A better one," he says.

"Which you also declined, with much difficulty," I finish, gracing him with a smile, though I don't show my teeth because it's unladylike. "I'm terribly sorry for all the trouble, I chalk it up to my excellent breeding, and I swear on my soul it shall never happen again--"

"And on the _next_ day, I received yet _another_ letter with yet a better offer," he says, "along with a note from an old friend. I believe you're acquainted… the scarred spearman?"

"Oh! Oh yes, he-- it was nothing improper, I assure you. I was most virtuously attempting to escape the Banner Court, and my undergarments… well, I'd sewn cloth into them so that--" I realize what I'm saying and catch myself. Who did I think I was talking to, Pansy? Imagine having a conversation about brassieres with my Grandfather!

I wish I'd brought a fan because my face feels distinctly warm. What has come over me?

"He told me all about it, never fear," Grandfather says, thankfully not remarking upon my slip. "And he also advised me on the correct course of action."

"Thank goodness! Oh, the Prince's son, that _awful_ boy!" I exclaim. "What trouble he's causing for you! However were you able to refuse the third offer?"

"The third offer," he says, "I did not refuse."

I stare at him, uncomprehending. He didn't refuse? But why? What does that mean? I must be hearing wrong…

Grandfather clears his throat. "The amount of wealth which shall come into this family's hands due to the exchange was simply too great to turn down. You've never heard of such a price, Jade, what the Prince is willing to give to gain you as family! Our domain shall be nearly doubled in size, and we'll receive gold and silver by the cartful, precious gems and textiles, spiced mutton, an entire flock of geese…"

My head reels, and I barely hear the list of goods he ticks off, the things the Prince shall deliver in exchange for me. I still can't believe it. Is that all I am, a commodity? Something to be traded when my hands become too thick to please the eye, my voice too deep to delight the ear?

And what will the Prince do when he discovers he's acquired faulty goods?

I feel tears spring to my eyes, and my chin begins to tremble. "Grandfather, you can't!" I whisper.

"Now, Jade," he chastens, "you shall not argue with your elders. I realize your situation is… difficult, but I have done what is best for this family. You know how our numbers have dwindled, how the outside world no longer views our family as powerful. Through the influence of those filthy Manchu, people have lost all respect for our name. _The House of Bad Faith_ , that is what they call us. With such a marriage, you shall put an end to this."

My vision blurs, and I bring my hands to my eyes to hide the shame of my tears. "But if you sell me off to the Prince, I won't _be_ your family anymore! I won't be _anyone_!" I manage, my voice breaking. "They'll keep me there, locked up with their ugly footed women, like a lucky cricket in a cage! My life will be over!"

I can't continue, overcome by my emotions. Even if I manage to somehow keep my secret, I've been handed the equivalent of banishment!

When a girl is married out, she becomes the property of her husband's family. The chances of seeing her own family once more are slim to none, and stories abound of new wives being tormented by their mothers-in-law or even being ostracized by their husband's entire family. The only way out is divorce, and after such a disgrace, their natal families won't take them back. Most end up like Pansy, selling themselves in teahouses, or worse. 

I try to explain that this simply cannot be my fate, not me, but all that comes out is, "Grandfather, _please_ …"

He sighs and places a hand on my shoulder. His fingers slide under my chin to lift it, and he pulls my hands down from my face, looking me directly in the eye. With the utmost calm, he tells me, "When you were born, the astronomers predicted that you would bring fortune to our family. With this act, you shall fulfill your destiny, Scorpius. What happens after we've handed you over… that is up to you."

I can scarcely believe it: Grandfather's sold me, his only grandson, like a girl! Like a _servant_! It doesn't strike me until later that he's used my real name, something he never does, but it offers me no comfort. I should have been heir to all of this: our fortune, our estate, everything! And what am I left with now? 

A future husband who doesn't know a penis when he feels one!

Pansy tells me the wedding is to be in twelve days, the date determined by the matchmakers to be most favorable by careful examination of our Eight Celestial Characters. Favorable to what? It's not even enough time for Father to return from the Capitol!

"Tell them it's too soon!" I beg her. "Tell them I'm ill, or diseased, or dead, or… or _pregnant_! Bribe a doctor to tell them my constitution could never withstand matrimony! That I break out in hives at the very thought of physical intimacy! Or that Manchu saliva is poison to me! I don't care, please just make them stop this!" 

We're alone in my bedroom, and I fall to the floor at her feet, clutching at the hem of her Hanfu. I press my lips to her slippers, feeling dizzy and lost, and pray that just this once, she'll come through for me. Please, just this once!

"You're marrying the future Prince of the Banner, one of the richest men in the world and you want me to feel sorry for you?" she asks. "Not to mention the fact that you kept me completely out of the loop on my gossip. Imagine having to learn from _Orchid_ of all people that the Prince's heir has proposed marriage to my own step-daughter! I was mortified!"

"Yes, but it was an accident! When I first met him, I didn't even know who he was! I thought I was disgracing our House by even speaking with him! He dresses like a trinket peddler! _Please_ , Pansy!" I urge.

She snorts. "I don't see what the big deal is. I mean, he's not a lackwit. Wait… has he got a hare lip or a club foot or some hideous deformity?"

I shake my head, wrapping my arms around her ankles.

"Well then, what's wrong with him? Pockmarks? Acne? Speech impediment? Short legs? Wide nose? Those beady little eyes that look like beetles under a super thick unibrow, and lips like--"

"I _wish_ he were hideous!" I moan. "But he's _not_! He's the handsomest boy who ever walked the earth, and I feel faint just thinking of him! I have shameful dreams of his lips! And with the way he looks at me, I'm sure he'll want me in his bed every night! Please, Pansy, save me from such a cruel fate!"

A small and unintelligible noise comes from Pansy's throat. "So… what you're trying to tell me," she says, as though sounding it out, "is that he's not only rich and powerful, but mind bogglingly sexy. And… busting through the front of his stupid Manchu trousers for you?"

"Yes!" I lament. "It's unendurable!" 

"You know, if I heard this from any other girl, I'd swear she was having me on," Pansy tells me.

" _I'm not a girl!_ " I cry. 

"Get your head out of your arse for once," she orders, pulls one of her feet from my grasp, and shoves it in my face. "And stop slobbering on my new shoes!"

I'm doomed.

I lie upon the floor, body curled into a ball, tears forming puddles at my cheek. I wail with my hands jammed over my ears until my voice is no louder than the flap of a bird's wing. I refuse to set foot outside my room and leave my food untouched on the plate the servants bring me. 

A single word from Father would comfort me to no end, but no letter comes. I think of Mother and wish yet again that she were here with me. Grandfather sends me _The Book of Female Filial Piety_ with a note that it I might find it useful; I tear the covers off and rip the pages into tiny shreds, sprinkling them out my window like wood block print snow. 

Twelve days is a long time to be shut up alone with no one and nothing to distract me from my impending fate, though, and I soon wish I hadn't been so spiteful. Boredom turns my mind in crazy circles, and like the foolish maiden I pretend to be, all I can do is stare out into the courtyard and dream up unbearable fantasies of my fiancé. There, every servant is his envoy, every birdsong the sound of his voice, every gust of wind his breath on my skin.

It's the most sexually frustrating courtyard I've ever seen.

Of course, besides the Prince's, it's the _only_ courtyard I've ever seen, but still.

I lean over the windowsill in that way I know looks romantic and lovely. The watchdog is the only creature to bear witness, though, and it yips at a bird, rolls in something nasty, and licks its private parts. I sigh mournfully and decide that not even Black could be so uncouth. He's surely abandoned me as well.

"I can count the days until your wedding on one hand," Pansy shouts from behind my door one afternoon as the early summer sun struggles to break free from a blanket of clouds. "Not even _you_ could self destruct that quickly!"

"You've always underestimated me!" I inform her in a voice that's still raspy.

In a quieter, private voice, she asks, "Do you want me to sneak him in?"

I gasp. "What!"

"You're what they call _overripe_ ," she says back. "Like a peach with brown spots. Gone too long without, and now you're turning all gooey over him."

"I most certainly am not!" I protest, sure I've never been so insulted in my life. A spotty peach!

"I could get him here, you know," she continues, ignoring me. "Have him pay a little visit before the big day, take the edge off your nerves for the wedding night. It wouldn't be any trouble-- I know people. It's called _connections_."

I imagine him outside my window, the real him and not some wildly dreamt up apparition. He falls to his knees, declares his undying love, and pierces me through the heart with the intensity of his gaze. I know he's a lunatic, and his hair is as stupid as ever, but the thought of it makes my cheeks flush. I'm so appalled with myself that it takes several moments to regain my powers of speech. 

"I am not a _peach_ ," I murmur.

But by then, Pansy is gone.

I can only assume that she took my silence as acquiescence, and plans to bring Albus here to disgrace me. I ponder late into the night and decide that I am left with only one option: I must run away.

* * * * * 

The night air chills my skin even under my cloak, and only the light of the moon guides my steps. From stone to uneven stone, I sway across the courtyard, each footstep a victory for my tiny golden lotuses. The watchdog trots up to me, tail wagging, and snuffles at my robes. I pat its head, order it to go lie down, and turn back to my journey.

In my path sits our hulking guard dog, fur darker than the night itself. It raises a massive leg and scratches its neck. "What the hell do you think you're doing?" it demands.

I groan. "I am running away," I tell Black. "In protest of my subjugation to the Manchu barbarians at the hands of my grandfather." 

"Running away," he repeats. "You can't be serious. Honestly, how far do you--"

"Shh!" I hiss. "Not so loudly, you'll wake someone!"

He snorts. "How far do you really think you'll get? You have no food, no money, nowhere to go… you'll be lucky if you make it to the next house without breaking an ankle!"

"Don't try to stop me, there's nothing you can do. My mind is made up," I proclaim, and search for a navigable way around him. 

He sighs a massive canine sigh and hauls himself to his feet. "Well, I can't really let you do that," he tells me. "As annoying of a descendent as you are, I couldn't bear to see you dead. And by that, I mean I don't want to have you following me around for eternity, which is exactly what will happen if you die tonight. The heavenly keepers of the Register of Death are very clear about that."

Imagine following a creature like that around for all of eternity! How indecent! "But I'm not dying," I assure him. "It's only that my family has abandoned me, and I'm better off on my own. Kindly let me through!" 

"Look, just _listen_ to me for a minute!" Black says, and gives a warning growl. "I've got some options for you, alright? I can _help_. And before you get any ideas in that self important little mind of yours, running away is _not_ one of the options!"

"I am most certainly not self important! My wellbeing hangs in the balance!" I insist, barely remembering to keep my voice down. "I'm being sold to the highest bidder like a servant in the market! Or… peaches! I'm being sold like peaches!"

"What's wrong with selling peaches?" he asks. "People like to eat them."

"But I'm not a peach! I'm not farm produce of any kind! I'm a boy forced to live a girl's life, and now it's been taken one step too far! I can't do it anymore, and I've got to leave before it's too late! Once I'm married off, my fate is sealed!"

He regards me for a moment, dark eyes looking uncannily intelligent. His tongue flicks out across his jowls. "Alright," he says. "I understand. I'll help you run away."

I press my hands to my chest in relief. Finally, my savior has come! I close my eyes and take a deep breath. When I open them, I'm looking not at a dog, but at a man.

He is young and handsome and dressed in fine clothing. The moonlight washes the colors to grey, but the quality of the weaving and intricacy of the embroidery is unmistakable. A dark sash crisscrosses his slender middle, making his height seem even grander. His hair is long in the Han style, flowing free down his back in waves. He has eyes like mine.

My ancestors were so attractive! Why did no one tell me?

I bow and hope I haven't offended him. Is it acceptable to look a man in the eye if he's dead?

"We'll need to be quick, so don't dally with formalities," he instructs. "It's not like we haven't met, anyway."

"I do apologize for my behavior before," I begin, feeling spectacularly embarrassed. 

He shakes his head. "You're forgiven. Now, there's no way you can make it on your own with feet like that, but as you can see, I'm endowed with certain powers. If it's truly what you want, I'll put your body back the way it was meant to be. You'll be a young man, free to go and do as you please. I'll take you to your father in the Capitol, and you can pretend to be his illegitimate child. Though probably not in those clothes. And you'll have to shave your forehead for the queue, unless you want the Manchu to cut your head off…"

"You can do that? Fix my feet?" I ask. Tears spring to my eyes. "You'll turn me back into a boy again and take me to Father, really?"

He waves the questions away as though so much dissipating mist. "Not a problem. I might not be able to get them perfect, considering you've squished them to the size of a toddler's, but it'll be good enough. Take off your bindings, and I'll see what I can do."

I gape because this is surely impossible. A Han woman never shows her unclothed feet to a man. It would take away all the mystery, the mystique of her lotuses. Why should one yearn for something he has already achieved? Also, unbound feet look and smell completely vile, and it simply wouldn't do to make this known. 

"Must I--" I begin, but Black shushes my query. He steps in front of me as though to shield me as he stares toward the house, hand on my shoulder.

His fingers through the cloth are cold as ice.

"Quickly, I fear someone's heard us," he murmurs. "I can't heal them when they're wrapped like that. Fully grown feet would burst the binding cloth. I need everything off them."

I want to protest, but what can I say? This is my only hope. 

My shoes beside me, I sit on the ground and unwind the material, letting it fall into a messy pile on the paving stones. When I get them unwrapped, I let my feet dangle, the night air against my naked skin sending a chill up my spine.

Black kneels, takes one of my legs by the ankle, and makes a face. He touches his fingers very gently against a sore spot on my arch that oozes something sticky. "Terrible," he says, shaking his head. "Absolutely horrific thing to do to someone. And to think _this_ is what they call beauty."

I try not to feel ashamed at his criticism, but it cuts me to the core. Even at my worst, I strive my hardest to be beautiful, and seeing him so repulsed… "This is why we keep the bindings on," I murmur, voice quivering and face warm.

"Look, don't panic about it, alright? I can fix them… though there's nothing I can do about the toes. If you had them, I could probably reattach the things, but I'm guessing you don't carry them around in your robes." He sighs, brow furrowed. "Utterly barbaric. And they wonder why I did what I did."

"What did you do?" I ask.

He shakes his head, fishing around in his robes. "Never mind, it's not important. Another minute, and you'll be good as new. Now if I could just find my…" 

The faintest noise comes from behind him, a scrape of gravel underfoot. Black twists, dropping my foot to the ground, and gasps. 

Behind him stands Step-Grandmother, her figure lit by the glow of the moon. 

Her long hair, worn thin by her own fingers, falls in her face, obscuring all but her lips, which twist into a wicked grin. Sash looped around one ankle, her Hanfu robes trail behind her, open to reveal the sag of her heavy breasts and the dark triangle at the apex of her thighs.

" _Black!_ " she screeches. 

He's on his feet in seconds, cursing and screaming at her. "Get away, you crazy old witch!" he shouts. "This has nothing to do with you!" His hand fumbles in his robes for something but comes up empty. 

"You'll pay for your treachery, Black!" the woman yells. When she tilts her head back, I catch sight of her eyes, which, unlike their usual glassy look, are as vibrant and intelligent as my own. She raises her arm, and I see what I could not before: in her hand, she brandishes a long, thin object, the tip shining in the darkness.

"No!" I cry. "Step-Grandmother, no!" I pull myself up, but before I even get to my feet, pain stabs through me, and I collapse to the ground screaming. Without their bindings to support them, my feet, bent and twisted with their bones of out place and toes fused to their soles, cannot begin to support my weight. 

The sound that leaves Black's mouth is something the likes of which I've never heard and would pay dearly to never experience again. It is a scream but strangled and choked, caught in his throat, and sent the wrong way through his lungs. He falls backwards, legs splaying. His head cracks against the flagstones. 

Step-Grandmother laughs above him, ear-splitting and cruel, but not crazy. She tucks her hair behind her ear and surveys her work as though an artist looking over her latest painting. "Oh, revenge is _sweet_!" she cackles.

When I turn my eyes back to Black, our guard dog lies in his place, its tongue lolling and a knife sticking from its chest.

"What did you do?" I ask Step-Grandmother, feeling disbelieving and numb. "What did you _do_!"

But she only laughs louder.

"Who's out there?" a voice calls.

Father's childhood servant lumbers up the walk, lantern held above him.

I wonder what possible explanation I could offer for the scene, me in the dirt with my feet unbound and Step-Grandmother half naked standing over a murdered dog. Then I realize that no explanation is required. Working up my most pathetic sniffle, I hide my face in my hands and blubber nonsense. 

Step-Grandmother laughs-- her crazy laugh again now-- and hums a toneless tune. She pats my back and tugs at a lock of my hair. Fake tears have already sprung to my eyes, but this works me into a true hysteria. Have I lost my mind? Did I imagine it all? But the dog that was Black is still dead at my side! I gasp for breath, and the world feels hazy and distant.

The next thing I know, the man is putting me to bed, patting my head clumsily with a massive, callused hand. He brings in an old woman, one of our servants, to take care of me. She rewraps my throbbing feet, fixes me tea with medicinal herbs she pulls from the fold in her Hanfu, and watches as I drink. Halfway through the cup, I feel lightheaded and realize she must have mixed opium in. I float above my body, the world going in and out of focus, blissfully free of pain and thought as I drift off to sleep.


	3. Chapter 3

In the morning, Pansy wakes me. I expect her to be cross with me, or filled with uncomfortable questions, but she's not. I hear her by the window, whistling an old song about a love struck maiden. 

My head is pounding, and my mouth feels like it's been packed with cotton. "Stop," I murmur. "Please stop…"

"Oh, but I'm in such a good mood," she says. "Today is my special day!"

I moan, "Special day for _what_?"

She giggles and comes to the bed, and I blink up at her.

She's wearing the strangest things. Thrown haphazardly over her shoulders is a cloth that upon examination reveals itself to be a richly embroidered crimson tunic; at her waist hangs a skirt with dozens of tiny pleats in an interlocking pattern of clouds, flowers, and good luck symbols. On her head sits an exquisite headdress of cloisonné flowers with leaves of jade and a curtain of pearl strands falling before her eyes. But those things could only be…

"Those are mine!" I proclaim, indignant. "For my wedding, those are mine! My wedding costume and headdress! What are you doing wearing my things?"

"Well, you're not interested in getting married, so I thought I'd borrow them for the day. I told you I'd look lovely!" she says, and turns her head so that tiny gold butterflies I hadn't noticed dance amongst the flowers on her head.

I pull my wobbly body from bed and start toward her, incensed. Behind her, taking up a full corner of my room, a half dozen trunks are piled, along with an end table, chairs, and a shelf of books. I gape at them.

"Not very ladylike!" Pansy announces.

I snap my mouth shut and clear my throat. "But what are these doing here?" I ask. My head pounds with the words, and I bring a hand to my temples.

Pansy giggles again. "They're your dowry, silly! Did you think your grandfather was going to send you away empty handed? He can't have people thinking we're poor, now can he?"

"Dowry?" I say, surveying the cache. I open the nearest trunk and find neat stacks of clothing I've never seen before, run my fingers across the spines of books I've never read. "All of this is mine?"

She leans against the wall, pulling the veil of pearls away from her eyes. "Well, you should pick a few things to give as gifts to your new sister and mother-in-law, but the rest…" she shrugs.

But this makes no sense! Grandfather's selling me off for my bride price, he said so himself. In a few days' time, I won't be his responsibility anymore, so why is he parting with so much wealth? These things cost a small fortune! Why not send me on my way with a few trinkets as custom requires?

"He didn't have to give you all this," Pansy says, as though reading my mind. "He does love you, you know. He wants you to be happy. That, and he's in a particularly good mood today. Your bride price just arrived, and the Prince threw in a half dozen peacocks."

"But I _am_ happy," I say. "I mean, I was… before all of this madness began…"

"Well, now you're lying to both of us," Pansy tells me. She takes my headdress off and sets it on the bookshelf. The pearls click against the lacquered wood. "In another year or two, you'll be too old to marry off. Do you really want to sit around this place for the rest of your life? What good is that doing anyone? At least at the Palace, you'll be able to…"

She continues, but I don't hear her. The butterflies on my wedding headdress float daintily above their flowers, and the morning light catches on the enamel. I'm drawn to the shimmer like a moth to a lantern. The feel of it is glorious in my hands, and when I slide the combs into my hair, I feel like a princess.

My mirror tells a different story.

I haven't been eating or sleeping properly, and my face shows it. My skin looks waxy, my lips pale, and bluish bruises encircle my eyes. I turn to catch my profile, and my cheeks look pinched, my chin pointier than ever.

What have I done to myself?

"Jade, are you even listening to--"

"Dumplings!" I shriek. "Dumplings and eggs! And rabbit and pork and rice and-- anything to fatten me up! Pansy, quickly, alert the servants! Tell them to-- How long do I have before the wedding? How long!"

"And vanity saves the day once more," Pansy mutters, and orders me up some food.

She sits with me, having safely draped my bridal costume over the bookshelf, nibbling as I gorge myself on anything I can shove into my mouth. Grease drips down my wrist, and I lick it off. It's terribly unladylike, but the very smell of food makes me salivate. However did I go so long without?

"So," Pansy says, examining an empty plate, " about last night…"

I nearly choke on a mouthful of marinated bean sprouts. 

"No one's blaming you, Jade," she assures me. "Being married out is never easy for a girl. We expected worse, actually, considering it's you."

I set down my chopsticks and bowl, feeling suddenly ill. I suppose I've been trying not to think of what happened, but it was my fault, wasn't it? Step-Grandmother is crazy, everyone knows that. She can't help herself; she can rarely even use a chamber pot properly! But she only came outside because I was there, and now our guard dog is dead, and Black…

If I didn't have these useless feet, maybe I could've saved them both.

But surely Black is fine. You can't kill someone who's already dead, right? I had him killed when he was a fish, didn't I? But what if, when he's in human form…

"Your grandmother was screaming the name _Black_ , wasn't she?" Pansy asks me.

I wipe at my lips, guilt assuaging my hunger. "It's not her fault-- she had no idea what she was saying. She was… confused. I'm sure she would've started in on White and Red in a moment."

Pansy snorts. "Confused, is it? She murders a dog in the place of a traitor, and that makes her confused?"

"A _traitor_?" I ask, baffled. 

She nods. "Black was a cousin of your grandmother's. He turned his back on us and supported the Manchu government. Wanted to force us to stop binding our feet and end political corruption."

I gasp at such insanity. "Stop binding our feet? How horrifying! And-- and where would politics be without corruption? The whole system is based upon lies and subterfuge!"

"Exactly," Pansy agrees. "The man was out of his skull. Thankfully, he was killed by the Flight of Death, but not before your step-grandmother's first husband… or great-uncle, or whatever you want to call him… anyway, not before Black had him executed for treason. Back when she still able-minded, your step-grandmother swore revenge upon Black's spirit for his betrayal. Maybe she'll think she's got it now and finally join her ancestors. After she's buried, I want those earrings she has, the ones with the opals…"

I wonder how much of Pansy's story is true. Black, a traitor? 

In my mind's eye, Step-Grandmother's face appears as it did last night, triumphant and intelligent and sane as sane can be. The image is replaced by one of Black as a man in majestic grey robes, my would-be savior, his arm outstretched to shield me from danger. 

"Was Black so very handsome in life?" I wonder aloud.

Pansy snorts. "The hopeless ones always are. But enough about that, it's water under the bridge. We need to talk about your wedding."

I sigh. Leave it to Pansy to care more about trivialities than matters of actual importance. "What about it? I'm a dutiful young woman, I obviously know what's required of me whilst my new family completes the ceremony. It's not complicated." 

"Then you also know what your mother-in-law is going to give you," Pansy says, "and you can probably reason out the fact that it won't do you much good."

A flush rises to my cheeks, and I swallow hard. As my new family celebrates my arrival, my mother-in-law will give me her confidential book of knowledge for a new wife. In it will be not only a woman's secrets for a harmonious relationship, but tips for pleasing her husband on their wedding night.

Being a man myself, I have a fairly good idea of what a woman could do to satisfy one… but how am I to perform such acts? Or perhaps the better question is, how am I to feign performing them? Even if the room is dark, or I keep my clothes on, or he's so drunk he can barely stand, won't it be obvious even to someone as thick as he is that I'm not doing things properly?

Is it too late to claim I can't read?

"Not to worry," Pansy tells me, a smile on her lips. "I'm an expert in these matters."

"Don't remind me!" I groan.

She rolls her eyes. "Look, there are a dozen things you can do to make him forget all about _clouds and rain_."

I hang my head in shame. _Clouds and rain_ is what they call the physical joining of bodies, the meeting of masculine _yang_ of the earth and feminine _yin_ of the heavens. When heaven and earth come together, the rain falls, the clouds dissipate, and harmony emerges. 

But how am I to make the rain fall when I have no clouds?

"…usually works pretty well, though you'll want to be careful if he's too grabby," Pansy is explaining, oblivious as always to my emotions. "They call it 'playing the flute,' and I _know_ you can guess what that is--"

I cover my ears. "There is no need to talk filth!" I exclaim.

Pansy pulls my hands down. "When you're married, it's not filth. It's--"

But I cover my ears back up, humming the same song she was whistling earlier to drown out her voice. She rolls her eyes, and I throw her a stern look. I'm not married yet, and I'm pretty sure filth is filth no matter what.

* * * * *

On the day of my wedding, I don't eat with my family. My fiancé has had a veritable feast prepared for them, but as custom dictates, I stay in my room to prepare myself. 

We Han are particularly superstitious when it comes to weddings, and a mirror and sieve have been hung above my door to ward off any ill-intentioned spirits. My eyes keep darting to the windowsill, hoping Black will fly in, but to no avail. Is he being kept away by the charms because he means me harm? Or is he too weakened to assume another incarnation?

Pansy comes with her daughter and two servants to do my hair and makeup. Another servant comes with a dish of symbolic wedding foods: seeds of the water lily, sunflower, and pumpkin to bring many sons, and pork spareribs to give me the strength to bear them.

I accept what's offered and don't mention the irony of the situation.

Neither does anyone else.

The servants then wash my limbs in water scented with pomelo leaves, yet another ward against evil. Pansy washes and rebinds my feet for the last time, and I can't help but wonder who shall do it for me in my new Manchu household. I want to ask if Grandfather has included a servant in my dowry, but as there is nothing I can do if he hasn't, I hold my tongue.

The servants apply the white powder to my face, rubbing daubs of color into my lips and cheeks. Pansy pins my hair up with gold and jade hairpins, affixing my headdress atop it. My chubby step-sister brings my wedding costume, and even as she steps on the hem and pulls a stitch loose, I realize I'll miss her. 

Why do we never appreciate what we have until we lose it?

In my wedding finery, I lead the women with delicate, swaying steps to our ancestor shrine, where I thank Mother and Grandmother and the rest of our family for watching over me, and say goodbye. This is my last time speaking with them; they are no longer mine, either. From now on, my guardians shall be my husband's ancestors.

May they forgive me if I'm not terribly reassured by the thought.

A few of the servants are crying, though I can't fathom why they'd be upset that I'm leaving. Perhaps they simply like to cry. Grandfather's old concubines, with their wrinkled lips, grey hair, and gnarled hands, cluck and pat at my shoulders, though I'm sure all they care about is the upcoming feast. One of them squeals, and the group makes a hasty retreat as Step-Grandmother approaches.

I take her hands before she can start fussing with the frogs of my tunic. "I wish I could take you with me," I whisper in her ear. "Just us two. Wouldn't that be nice?"

She laughs her crazy laugh, head thrown back, and then leans in to murmur, "I have total confidence in you, Scorpius. Believe in yourself, and all you wish for shall be yours."

I gape at her, stunned speechless.

She smiles, expression clever and maybe just a touch evil. Then, she goes back to staring into nothing and pulling at her own hair again.

"I love you," I whisper, tears in my eyes, and kiss her on the cheek.

Grandfather meets me at the front doors with my red silk veil. "Your life is now in your own hands," he tells me, voice devoid of emotion. "I know you will make us proud."

He lifts the veil over my headdress, covering me to the shoulders. From the murky red light within, I tell him, in the same emotionless tone, "Do not speak to me. I'm not your plaything anymore."

The noise is deafening as he leads me to the palanquin. The band that Grandfather has hired plays to wish me farewell and congratulate the family on finding a child of their House a suitable match, whilst I, all but blind beneath the veil, am helped to my seat. Children laugh and shout as they catch the treats and shiny copper _cash_ being thrown by the men in my wedding parade, but I don't see them.

After a time, the sounds fade, and only the footfalls and panting breaths of the litter bearers and men behind them carrying my dowry reach me. I think about what I'm feeling and what, as a bride, I should be feeling. Nothing comes to mind, so lean back against the seat and close my eyes.

Before I know it, a strong hand is shaking me awake. "Time to meet your new mother," a male voice I know from somewhere says, and the hand takes mine.

I hold the veil out before me to be sure that my steps meet with solid ground as we make our way inside, but my face remains covered. Somewhere in the distance, fireworks crack and pop, and the sounds of music and happy voices drift to my ears. If my life had gone as it should have, I might have had such a celebration one day, welcoming a wife into my family, life, and bed.

"Is this her?" a woman asks.

"Well, I can't see her face, but she showed up in a palanquin dressed in bridal red, so I'm guessing it is," my escort says.

"I'm not in the mood for your jokes today," the woman snaps, and I now recognize her voice as that of the Banner Prince's wife. "Just bring her in."

His hand on my back guides me into the bridal chamber. "Would you like to take her to the shrine to meet the ancestors first?" he asks. "It might calm her to know she's being watched over."

"Tomorrow will be fine for that," she tells him. "She doesn't need to be involved in the ceremony. Leave us."

He settles me in a chair and gives my shoulders a squeeze before walking out. Perhaps the gesture was meant to be comforting, but I feel worse than ever. How could he think he might help? I'm beyond being comforted. 

I believe I shall never feel comfort again in my life.

"I don't approve of my son's choice," my mother-in-law's voice states, shocking me with its fierceness, "but it is his choice, and as a mother, I'm forced to respect it. And, of course, he's been talking so incessantly about you that I might've been forced to strangle him otherwise. So tell me, are you all he says you are?"

I swallow, not sure what response she's looking for. I'm nothing he says I am. How could I be? At length, I reply, "I am what my family has made me."

She sighs. "That's what I was afraid of."

I don't know what that means, but if I was nervous before, I'm an utter wreck now. I've done nothing to her, yet she obviously hates me. Making enemies usually takes at least _some_ effort, even for me!

I hear her monstrous feet slapping against the floor, first away from me, then towards, and I feel light-headed. "Here's the book," she says, and plops something in my lap. "Read it and make my son happy."

My fingers slide across the cover, trembling. I try to thank her, but my voice catches in my throat. 

"You're welcome," she says. "Now let's get a few things straight. The women's quarters are _my_ domain. You have no influence there, nor shall you seek it. You will have ten eunuchs to attend to you, no more, and you shall not attempt to commandeer anyone else's. The Imperial Prince of the Bordered White Banner is the head of your house now, and you shall always be pleasant in his presence. Do not question his authority. If my son tires of you, or you lack respect, I _will_ see that you're divorced and sent home in disgrace. Do I make myself clear?"

Again, the words don't come, so I merely nod my head.

"That's what I thought," she says. 

And with that, she stalks from the room.

I grip the book in my lap so tightly that my fingers ache. I want to read, I do, but it's clear there's no chance of that. My stomach is empty, but it churns and makes me feel as though I might vomit. My eyes water, but I stop myself from crying because it would ruin my makeup.

I sit in silence for three hours.

The weight of the headdress makes my neck terribly stiff.

Raucous voices pierce the air as the wedding party approaches to drop off the groom. The men laugh and shout, and I fear they plan to enter the bridal chamber along with him. Not wanting them to catch me with reading material of such a delicate nature, I rise to my feet, swaying to a cabinet and hiding the book in one of its drawers.

Albus bursts through the door. Behind the veil, I only recognize him by his voice. He laughs, yelling, "Oh, go home, you freeloaders! You've had your festival, this is no teahouse!"

The men roar in laughter at his words, and I hear a few of them whistle and make improper comments about my feet. The door closes on them, and they make a show of beating against it to gain entry. I take a deep breath as the noises die out, and the men return to their rice wine.

As custom dictates, Albus is dressed in red as well, the bottom of his trousers and shoes showing through the gap beneath my veil. His fingers appear beneath the edge of the fabric, and I feel the silk slide from my head.

The world is suddenly bright with candles, the nighttime air cool against my skin. I blink at my new husband, my eyes taking a moment to focus. Albus's face is flushed, his eyes brilliant and sober, smile making my heart beat that strange way it only does when he's around.

"Hey," he says. 

His hair is still stupid.

He brings his fingertips to my cheek and tells me, "You're even more beautiful than I remembered." 

I look away, a flush rising to my face. 

"You can look at me now, we're family," he assures. His hand glides to the back of my neck, stroking at the soft hairs that have escaped Pansy's pinning.

"Isn't that convenient," I murmur, shivering at his touch.

"So do you want talk a bit and get to know each other better, or should we just skip right to the _clouds and rain_?" he asks.

I pull away, turning my back to him. What a crude question!

"Look, I don't know how you were raised," he informs me, voice firm though not unkind, "but in this household, you've got to speak up. We're sort of a bunch of loudmouths, and if you stand around looking prim all the time, nobody's going to take you seriously for long."

Yes, it's clear that in this family, it takes a slap across the cheek, knee to the groin, or shoe to the forehead to be taken seriously.

"Come on, you and I are _married_ now," he urges. His hands slide across my waist, just above where the spread of my hips should be. "You don't need to be embarrassed. There's nothing wrong with getting to know each other later if you want to skip the talking for now. We've got years for that. I know how much you want me."

"I don't," I lie, wanting nothing more than to fall back into his arms. "I never have. And I never will."

He snorts and wraps his arms around my ribcage. "You're a terrible liar. Now come on, let's get you in my bed."

"For what _possible_ purpose?" I demand. I bring my hands up to peel his arms off my middle, but for some reason I can't explain, my fingers glide along his forearms in what could almost be a caress. I make no sense to myself, and my voice trembles as I ask, "Just how stupid are you?"

His lips press against the back of my neck, and my knees feel as though they may give out. "I've got the girl of my dreams in my arms," he murmurs against my skin. "That doesn't seem so stupid to me."

I swallow and shift against him, wanting to be at once both closer and further away. He draws me toward him, the movement shifting my pleated skirt. It brushes against the hardness between my legs, and I gasp.

"My bed," he whispers in my ear. "Please."

My head reels and tips to the side, and his lips kiss a line up my neck. He sucks at my earlobe, my earring clicking against his teeth. I murmur, "I can't make you happy," even as my eyes drift shut.

"You already do, Jade," he whispers back.

"But I'm not… I don't have a…" I struggle for the words with a mind that's filled with him: his arms, his lips, his erection pressed against my backside.

I lean in so that the barest whisper can be head. "I've got a…" I swallow, my voice barely audible, and say the word into his ear.

His lips pull away from my skin, and I immediately regret saying it. I had to, there was no _choice_ , but I feel so good when he touches me, like it's all a cruel joke. It's almost like I'm a woman after all, and he really _could_ lay me down on his bed, press between my legs and…

He laughs. "Of course you've got a penis. What would be the point if you didn't?"

I twist in his arms to stare at him, my mouth hanging open.

"So can I undress you now?" he asks.

"But I-- you-- what--" I stammer. This is unbelievable! He knew I was a man, but he married me anyway? How is that possible? How could-- How did-- He _knew_? 

"I thought you were pretty when I first saw you, and your feet are really sexy, but I meet a lot of pretty girls with little feet. You knew my favorite opera, though, and that really impressed me," he recounts. His eyes go misty as he adds, "But when I wrapped my hand around your cock, that's when I _knew_ it was love!"

He's an imbecile. I should have known. No, I _did_ know, I just didn't understand to what depth his idiocy extended. 

"I'm sure you've heard stories about me," he continues, stroking at the fabric of my tunic as though he's said nothing out of the ordinary. "About how I consort with the lower classes… sowing crops, forging iron, sweeping restaurant floors… but there's a reason for all of that. The things they say I do with women, though… that's all lies, I swear. I've never _touched_ a woman before, not even once. You see, I was waiting for you, even before we'd met!" 

I cross my arms with difficulty, as he hasn't let me go yet, and I'm still tangled up in his embrace. "If you're trying to claim you've never even been to a teahouse--"

"Oh no, I've been to a teahouse. Quite a few, actually, my uncle takes me," he says. "There's one girl at a place just down the way who makes him so giddy, he walks into poles. I got pretty bored playing Double Sixes with the ugly ladies whilst Uncle made noises in the back room, though, so I got to talking with the owner's son, and he taught me about mercantilism. It's an economic theory. Do you know what the _economy_ is?"

I roll my eyes and press the palm of my hand firmly into his face. "Of _course_ I do," I announce, shoving hard. "What _idiot_ doesn't know what the economy is? And who hasn't heard of mercantilism?"

At length, his arms loosen, and I'm able to pull away. He rubs at his nose, which is red from being smashed by my palm. "Um, pretty much nobody knows about mercantilism. It's a Western theory. Even Hugo hadn't heard of it when I told him."

"What's a _hugo_?" I demand.

He snorts. "My best friend and cousin, that's his name. He's younger than I am, but he already knows more than most of the court scholars. He brought you here from your litter. I'm going to undress you now."

I make a noise of protest and step away from him. I never got a good look at the room though, with my veil on the whole time, and I nearly fall when the side of my foot strikes a piece of furniture. I reach out to steady myself, and my hand grasps cool green stone. 

The stone is jade, and it forms a massive bed behind me, with scallops and carvings like the most intricate jewelry, and arches that reach to the ceiling. I run my fingers along it, delighting in the smooth feel of my namesake, and I find the form of a tiger beneath my fingertips. 

My first thought is that this bed must have cost more than what my family's farmlands net in a year. The second is:

"You sleep in a bed made entirely of _jade_ , and you couldn't remember my name? Were you _born_ oblivious?"

"I come by it honestly," he admits with a shrug. His fingers rub at the back of his neck, and he fusses for a moment with the plait of his queue. "Have you never seen a dragon bed before, then?"

I shake my head, emotions battling between awe and indignation.

"This one's a zodiac bed, too, it's got all twelve animals on it. Father had it commissioned when I was a boy. I was learning about the heavens from my tutor-- you've met him, the ugly one who's always hitting me-- and I was _obsessed_ with stargazing. I fell asleep outside on the upper terrace one night and made myself sick and almost died. Father wanted to make sure I'd sleep where I should after that."

"He sounds like a very generous man," I murmur, my fingers sliding over the carved shape of a horse. "This craftsmanship is amazing."

Albus hums his assent. "The best part, though, is when you lie down. If you put out all the candles except the ones over there," he points across the room to a low table on which several slender pillars of wax flicker, "the light shines through the lattice and forms constellations on the ceiling. Here, I'll show you…"

I want to decline, but he's already blowing out the candles beside the bed, so I lower myself onto the mattress, not wanting to be rude. When I look up, my headdress flops backwards, and I have to put my hands to the gold flowers to keep it from falling off. A butterfly flutters wildly against my finger, and I cringe, hoping I haven't bent anything. "Where are the constellations?" I ask.

"Back towards the wall," he says. "You've got to look closely, they're just pinpricks of light. Lie down, you'll see them better that way."

I squint and still see nothing, but the silly pearls are hanging in front of my face. Holding the headdress still with one hand and making sure to keep my legs covered by my skirt, I lie back and rest my head against the pillow. I see the candlelight on the ceiling at last, tiny dots twinkling like stars in the heavens. How clever!

Albus says something, and I hear the sound of a drawer opening, but I ignore him, wondering how the stars are oriented. Were they set, perhaps, as they had been on the day of his birth? How happy it would make me to find my own constellation! 

"Which way is North?" I ask.

"The way you're facing," he answers as his weight dips the mattress beside me. 

I squint and trace the dots with my finger, but as pretty as the sight is, I can't find Scorpius. I look for Draco next, with Rastaban and Eltanin for eyes, but I don't see that either.

"I don't understand. Where are they?" I ask, puzzled.

"Oh, the constellations?" he asks, voice low and silky smooth by my ear. "I made that part up, actually. Sorry about that."

What an _irksome_ boy! Who does he think he is, making his own wife feel a fool on their wedding night, looking for nonexistent stars! I push aside a strand of pearls, intent upon informing him just how I feel about his inane little games, only to discover that speech is impossible.

He's lying next to me on his side, head on the pillow beside me.

He has no shirt on.

I know what a naked male chest looks like; I've seen my own more times than I could count. While mine is pale and slender, though, with the curve of my ribs showing through the skin like a delicate birdcage, his is strong and supple with wide, tanned shoulders. His hardened nipples are held on a plateau of muscle, which dips downward in ripples toward his navel. A trail of dark hairs below it disappears beneath his trousers.

That crazy feeling takes me over again, the one that makes me perform the most rash and unpardonable acts, and I reach out a hand and run my palm across his chest. His breath draws in sharply, and mine catches in my throat.

"I'm going to undress you now," he whispers.

In his eyes is a reckless look I've never seen before, boldness and daring held in its depths, and I'm caught up in it like a fish in a trap. His hands are on the front of my tunic, working at the frogs, but even recognition of what he's doing can't break the power his gaze has over me. My mind screams, _No!_ when his fingers brush against my bare skin, and I swallow.

"Take off my headdress," I whisper, "or you'll ruin it."

"If I ruin it," he whispers back, "I'll buy you a new one."

I run my hand down the muscles of his abdomen, fingers feeling out every magnificent bump and hollow, and murmur, "See that you do."

He laughs, eyes finally breaking from mine, and his stomach clenches beneath my touch. My fingers are pale and fragile looking against his skin. He places his hand over mine, fingers square-tipped and nails blunt, and draws my touch downward. My fingertips rasp against the course hair beneath his navel, and I can't help but notice how tightly his trousers have been drawn across his hips. 

He shifts, and a dark spot forms on the red fabric, wet with his desire. My own desire throbs between my legs, drawing my skirt up like a tent. I bring my knees up so that Albus doesn't see, and it hangs stiffly between my thighs, an uncomfortable weight I can't ignore.

Albus leans over me, and his mouth is on my neck again, sending frissons though my body on its wet trek across my skin. His tongue circles the shell of my ear, then plunges inside, wet and slick and hot. The sound is enticing in its obsceneness, and it touches on something visceral inside me, sets my head reeling. I grope for something to steady myself against, fingers of one hand biting into his wrist, and the others scrabbling to grab hold of him through his trousers. 

He's so _warm_ down there, solid and firm in my grasp. I press my thumb to the wet spot on the cloth, and he grunts, his teeth nipping into my earlobe.

"Don't _bite_!" I hiss, liking it too much. My voice breaks and sounds more masculine than I should allow. I clear my throat, worried he'll be offended. 

I don't think he noticed my voice, though, as one of his hands runs down my side, coming to rest on my thigh. His fingers pluck at the fabric, and I feel it inch up my leg until he exposes my bare skin to the air. A stark white knee pokes out from beneath red silk, and I wince. If my skirt falls to my lap, my maleness shall be exposed in a terribly inelegant manner! A surge of shame flows through me, and my hand grips involuntarily at the bulge in his trousers.

He gasps. "Jade! Jade, I've waited so long--"

"I don't want to see," I whisper, panicked, and bring both hands to my body. I pull my tunic to cover the flat plain of my chest, wishing I could curl into a ball and hide. "Please, I don't want to…"

"But you're so beautiful," he tells me. 

"No," I cry, face burning with equal parts shame and desire, "it's disgraceful!"

"Shh…" He brings his lips to mine, but I turn away.

Sighing, he props himself up with a sturdy, tanned arm, and reaches for my foot. I'm sure he's going to do something strange to my lilies, and I brace myself for his perversions, but he's only taking my shoes off. His hands urge my legs apart at the ankle, and my heart flutters.

"I don't want to see it!" I remind him.

"Then close your eyes," he advises, and slides a hand up the inside of my thigh.

I shouldn't like it. I should scream or burst into tears, or try to escape. It would only be natural.

But I don't. I don't even want to. In fact, it's the last thing I want to do.

Taking a deep breath, I shut my eyes, trembling as his lips join his hand, kissing up the inside of my thigh and leaving cool, wet patches in their wake. When he reaches that place between my legs that feels hot and achy, he pauses. His breath puffs against my skin, and slowly, ever so slowly, he presses his tongue against the soft sack of skin between my thighs.

He whispers something that sounds like _beautiful_ , but the noises I'm making drown out his voice and would bring a blush to my cheeks if my face weren't already flaming red. I have to clap a hand to my mouth when he gently sucks one of my testicles into his mouth, and his nose nudges the base of my erection.

It's alright, though, doing these things with my eyes closed. Things are alright this way. I'm not a girl or a boy or a husband or a wife, or anything else I have to pretend to be or not be. I'm just me, free and alive.

Have I ever been such a thing before?

Albus is mouthing gently at the soft flesh beneath my skirt, hands stroking my thighs, and I still think he's an imbecile, but I don't even care. Nor do I care when his fingers drift, rubbing at the pucker of skin further down; my entire body is tingly and blissful. 

His hair tickles my legs in the nicest way, and I reach down and thread my fingers into it. Tightening my grasp, I give an experimental tug. 

The noise he makes in response has my stomach gripping, and even though I don't mean for my hips to jerk into him, they do. His tongue runs across something blissful, and it's perfect, just _perfect_ , and if he could just… if he would only…

"Please," I murmur. It's insane, and I don't even know what I want, but I know I've got to have it. "Please, Albus…"

I shiver as his breath puffs hot against my skin. His mouth runs up the length of my shaft, glides across the tip, and then encircles me in white-hot pleasure.

It happens just like that, quicker than I can think, and I'm not at all prepared, and I don't mean to do it in his mouth. I _don't_ , but I can't _help_ it when he's doing things like that! It's not my fault!

He says nothing, but I feel him slide away from me, and even though the strength has been sapped from my body, I reach out to him. "I'm _so sorry_!" I squeak.

When I open my eyes, he's kneeling next to me, undoing the buckle knot clasps on his trousers. His face is red, his mouth bolted shut, and his fingers tremble.

I try to help, but he pushes my hands away, shaking his head. He makes a noise in his throat as he finally frees his erection, and it springs into view, dark and angry looking, the tip glistening purplish in the candlelight. It's as long as mine but thicker, and it points so high, it nearly brushes his stomach.

I want to touch it, but I know I shouldn't. It wouldn't be proper. A real woman wouldn't want to. She's never seen such a thing before, and she'd be frightened.

Wouldn't she?

His head is back between my legs before I can decide. Everything is sensitive there now, and I wince as he nudges my penis. It hangs half-hard between my thighs, filling with a renewed interest even as I watch, and I wish I'd remembered not to look. His mouth presses beneath it, and something warm trickles down the crack of my arse. I squirm at the feeling.

"Relax," he tells me, and his fingers poke into the pucker of my hole, sticky wet.

"But what are you doing?" I murmur.

"Shh," he says, and then replaces his fingers with his tongue.

It feels strange and can't be cleanly, but my body reacts to it, erection fully stiff and throbbing once more. When he presses my knees to my chest, I take hold of them, pulling my feet up beside his shoulders, opening myself to him. His hands grip my thighs in response, fingers biting deliciously into my flesh, and as a reward, I run my toes across the line of his jaw. He moans and presses his cheek to my arch, inhaling the sweet fragrance.

When his eyes turn to me, I send him a wicked look, daring him to whatever act of boldness he's dreaming up. I've lost my mind, I know, but I want that feeling again, the one where I'm me and no one else. His face goes blank before offering up an expression to match mine, and he slides his body up between my legs. His bare chest brushes against mine, his lips warm on my neck, and something larger than a tongue presses at me down below.

"Don't!" I hiss, pushing at his chest with my palms. "It's dirty!"

He says _relax_ again, takes hold of my hip, and in one smooth motion, pushes inside of me.

It's disgusting and tight and terrible, and I don't like it at all. I don't!

But then I do. 

I like it a _lot_.

Pinned between us, my penis aches to be touched, and it seems that my whole body aches with it. I shift my hips toward his stomach, trying to rub against him, but the angle is wrong. 

"Albus," I murmur, and tap with tenuously held politeness against his shoulder. 

His eyes are squeezed shut, mouth open and puffing into the air above me. The scent of perfumed incense, smoke, and warm flesh come from his body, intoxicating me. He presses his hips in, burying himself even deeper, and the tendons in his neck pull taut, an enticing display of masculinity. I bring my lips to his skin, and when my headdress bumps his chin, I yank it from my head in a spray of hair pins and toss it aside.

His neck tastes like salt with a tinge of sweetness behind it, and he trembles as I draw my tongue across it. Then his hips jerk into me, my erection throbs with it, and I bite down hard on his collarbone. A guttural noise escapes his lips, and I feel his length sliding back out, only to thrust back in with such force that my eyes fly open.

"Again!" I gasp.

He bites out a lewd word that should offend me, but my body is so wracked with pleasure, all I can do is gasp and think, _again, again, again!_ He does what I ask, driving in even harder, and I'm barely over the delirious shock when he's repeating it over and over, quick jabs that slap his hips against me with fleshy little noises. 

It's like nothing I've ever imagined, and my head turns from side to side, thrashing against the pillow in abandon, hips jerking in time with his motions. 

"More," I moan. "More, more, _more_ \--"

He groans, digging his fingers into my side. Drawing breath through clenched teeth as he thrusts into me, he manages, "Jade… Jade, please… I can't… going to… please!"

His face contorts, movements going ragged, and I fall out of synch. It's going to end now, he's going to _finish_ , and the mere thought has me crying out in frustration. Not yet! Please!

"No, no, _no_!" I hiss, cuffing him about the ears. Not yet, not _now_ , I have to--

His breath catches, and I feel his body tremble above me, and utter desperation fills my being. I hiss a stream of obscenities I hadn't thought my well-bred mouth capable of forming, and squeeze a hand between us to wrap around my erection. He pounds hard into me, strangled noises escaping his throat as I work frantically at myself, teeth clenched. Too soon, he stiffens, emptying himself with a flood of warmth inside me. 

It lasts only a moment, but it seems so intense as to be painful for him. I want to sooth, and press my mouth to his swollen lips, tell him in all truth that he's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen, and I'll love him until the day I die. 

But of course that would be foolish.

Instead, looking into his half-closed eyes, I pull on the sticky heat of my erection until I feel the spasms hit. I drag the orgasm out of myself, surrendering to the feeling but brutalized by its intensity. My screams are harsh and dissonant in my ears as the fluid spills over my knuckles, coating my fist and running down my wrist in steamy rivulets. 

Afterward, our bodies shudder together, exhausted by their efforts, and Albus rests his forehead against my chest, panting. 

With heavy fingers, I cup his cheek and stroke through his hair, sluggish and torpid. I feel remarkably undisturbed, though I'm sure I should be upset by the indignity of the situation. My own hair hangs in my face, disgracefully mussed, and my chest is sticky with my seed. When I pull my hand out from between our stomachs, my fingers are webbed with goo.

"Mmm," Albus moans, disturbed by my movement, and slides out of me with a wet pop. "That was… incredible…"

I snort most indelicately and wipe my hand on his trousers.

"My _yang_ feels so much better," he murmurs, settling in beside me and drawing me into his embrace. "Doesn't yours?" His fingers against my collarbone feel like the soft touch of a bird's feathers. 

"You're an idiot," I tell him, voice wholly unguarded and deeper than his.

He laughs, a light, giggly sound, and brings his lips to my neck, pressing into that lovely spot just below my earlobe. He whispers, "I _knew_ you were the girl for me…"

Despite myself, I give a contented sigh and rub my hands across his shoulders. 

Why did I ever doubt my ability to please him? I've been such a fool. Of _course_ I have a natural talent at this sort of thing. It should have been obvious that I could satisfy him more than a real girl, and bring pleasure to myself in the process. I am, after all, superior to female creatures in every way!

Feeling sated and quite smug, I turn my eyes toward the ceiling. The candlelight stars twinkle in the night, and as sleep takes me into its grasp, I'm almost sure I see Scorpius shining down on me.


	4. Chapter 4

"Good morning!" a cheery voice chirps.

I wish Pansy would leave me alone for once, and I roll over to bury my face in my pillow. Only when I smack into a warm, muscled body do I remember where I am.

"Mmph," Albus mumbles, and throws an arm across me.

"So how was the magnificent wedding night of magnificence?" the voice asks. "Did the clouds open up and the rain pour down in torrents, darlings? Did it give your farmlands a nice soaking?"

"Shut up about our farmlands, Lily," my husband mutters. "You're the most annoying sister ever, and I hate you."

My eyes fly open at the word _sister_ , and I hurry to cover up and make myself decent to greet her. My clothing is still mostly on, my shoes thankfully beside the pillow, and I tuck the loose strands of hair behind my ears, wiping the sleep from my eyes. I've already made an enemy of my mother-in-law, and I'm not in the market for more at this moment. Oh, why did I not think to sleep with a mirror!

A girl with her hair in a horrible Manchu coiffure awaits, a tray in her arms. Her lips purse cutely as she rocks back and forth on her wooden platform shoes. I gape as I realize she's the same Lily I met at the festival.

"I _knew_ it!" she exclaims, beaming. "It _is_ you! I'm so _happy_!"

"You're so _loud_ ," Albus groans from the bed.

"Hugo!" Lily calls. "Hugo, come and see! I _told_ you it was her!"

Into the room strides a tall young man in trousers and a red circle emblem tunic. Before I can dip my head to avoid his face, I recognize him as the unhandsome messenger with clever eyes from so many months ago. 

He says, "You told me what was whom?" His voice matches that of the young man who escorted me inside last night.

Quite overwhelmed, I cover my mouth with both hands and stare forcefully down at my toes. 

"It's _her_ ," Lily tells the boy, "the girl Grandmother and I picked out for Albus! Of course he had to be an idiot and run off before we could properly get them together. There, you see what your bullheadedness brings you, Albus? You could've had her _months_ ago!"

"What are you two _doing_ in my _bedroom_?" Albus moans.

"It's nearly noon," Hugo says, "and you demanded that I let you know what the official decision on the opera was as soon as it was made. They can't put on _The Peony Pavilion_ because you've just had it performed, but they've chosen another very romantic… are you listening to me, Albus?"

He puts a pillow over his head.

"You know, sometimes I wonder why I even bother," Hugo sighs. 

Feet clonk towards me, and Lily's toes appear next to mine. She pops her head beneath my face to look into my downturned eyes. "Hello, Jade. Would you like to sit beside me at the opera?"

It's embarrassing that she tips her body to speak to me, so I raise my eyes, careful to keep my line of sight away from Hugo, even though we are technically family. "Women don't attend operas," I tell her in my most demure voice. "It's disrupting to their peaceful nature. Also, strange men might see us."

She lets loose a terribly indelicate laugh. "Well, we sit behind a screen! If you're at one of the cracks, though, you can peek through, I do every time. The costuming and makeup are so gorgeous, it's almost like its own festival!"

I have no idea what to say to such indecency. My face must be as red as my clothing.

"Oh!" Lily exclaims. "I almost forgot!"

She hands me the tray she's been holding, and what I assumed to be breakfast turns out to be soap, razors, cloth and a bowl of water. 

"For his hair, to make it into a proper queue again," she says with a nod. "So it doesn't look so stupid. You think it looks stupid too, don't you? He's such an idiot." 

And then she grabs my crotch.

I shriek and nearly drop the entire tray. Water sloshes over the edges of the bowl, washing over the razors, soaking the cloths, and setting the soap afloat.

Lily erupts into a fit of giggles, hand over her mouth, and I stare at her, utterly mortified. How horrible! Whyever would she _do_ such a thing?

"I can't believe you just did that," Hugo says, echoing my thoughts.

"She really _does_ have one under there!" Lily squeals. "I've never met a girl with a _penis_ before!"

"Girls don't have penises, Lily," Hugo tells her, sounding tired.

She rolls her eyes. "Well, _this_ one does. I _felt_ it!" 

"This one's not a girl," he informs her.

"Of course she is, stupid," Lily fires back. "She just married my brother. And look at her feet! So Jade, have you got girl bits, too? Couldn't your new sister have a quick peek? I promise I won't tell a--"

"What on _earth_ is going on here?" a woman's voice demands from the doorway.

For a moment, I think it's my mother-in-law, and fear grips my insides, tangling with the shame. One look at her reassures me, though. The woman's feet are giant, and she wears the same type of silly head adornment, but her face is quite unlovely, and her hair is an unmanageable mess.

What is the issue with these Manchu and their horrific hair?

"Jade, this is your aunt," Lily announces, giggling no doubt at the thought of what I hide under my skirt. Is it possible to die of embarrassment?

"Mother," Hugo begins, "Albus told me to let him know the moment the--"

"Out! Both of you!" my new aunt orders. "It's the morning after their wedding! What are you two _thinking_?"

She ushers them out the door, shaking her head.

Lily grins and waves, throwing me a smile over her shoulder. "See you at dinner! I'm sure we're going to become the _best_ of friends!"

I stare blankly down at my soggy tray.

"Oh, I am so sorry about them! My name is--" The name she says is so long and hideously Manchu that I couldn't reproduce the sounds if I tried. She takes the tray and sets it on a table, though, which makes things a bit better. Soggy trays are horribly depressing. "Are you settling in alright? I know how marriage can be such a disquieting process for a young woman. Do you miss your old family horribly?"

I'm not sure what to tell her. Everything has been so strange. I shrug.

"Well, don't worry. In a few days, you'll be feeling right at home here," she assures with a smile. She shows her teeth, the front two of which are remarkably large and remind me of a rodent, and I do my best not to cringe at something so unfeminine. "Now I know your new mother told you about your eunuchs, and I hope you'll understand why you haven't seen them yet. After all the fuss over the wedding, I've given them the day off. It's only fair, don't you think?"

I have no idea what she's talking about, so I smile pleasantly (teeth well concealed!) and nod.

" _Really_ ," she continues, "can you imagine waiting on someone hand and foot day in and day out? It must be _exhausting_! And the process of creating a eunuch is so painful and inhumane! I'm petitioning to have it outlawed, and I _do_ hope you'll join me. We women must band together to aid in the plight of those who cannot help themselves, it's the only logical course of action. I think withholding _clouds and rain_ until they're ready to burst should convince the men fairly quickly. Don't you agree?"

"You remind me of someone," I tell her, fake smile still plastered to my face. "My step-grandmother. We were always very close." And you are _just as insane_.

"Oh, what a sweet girl you are!" she declares with another rodent grin. 

"You are too kind," I murmur. And _horrifying as death_.

Though she pokes him several times in the side and tugs at his shoulder, Albus only mumbles sleepy nonsense at her. Perhaps he's exhausted his allotment of _yang_.

"It's no use trying to manage men sometimes," my crazy new aunt tells me. "Their skulls are thick as stone. Why don't you go and get yourself some breakfast? Or… well, I suppose it would be lunch at this point… Anyway, go down the hall, and take the third door on your right."

"The third on the right?" I ask, realizing that I am, in fact, hungry.

She nods. "Then you take the passage around the corner and be sure to go to the _left_ , then straight past the courtyard, halfway up the stairs, and on your right, you'll find a large door with a lock. The kitchen is two doors past that on the other side of the hall."

"Oh," I say, baffled. "Thank you."

She waves me out. "Go on, I'll take care of his hair. Best to do these things while they're asleep, after all. Men can be such great babies, it's a good thing they have us women around to look after them…"

I leave the room with no small pleasure, though I hope I don't run into anyone important. No one's said anything, but I'm sure I still look a mess from last night. I take the third door on the right and sway delicately to the left, but I see no courtyard. Doubling back, there seem to be twice as many doors as there were before, and I find that I've lost my way entirely. A sense of panic rises in my chest; I've never been truly lost before, and this place seems a great maze. Suppose no one ever finds me, and I die here!

To my relief, I hear voices from an open door down the hall and hope it won't be too much trouble for them to help me. Feeling entirely foolish, I smooth my hair back again, straighten my wrinkled wedding costume, and make my way toward them.

"Hello?" I murmur. "I beg your pardon for the interruption, but…" The two men inside the room are arguing, though, and don't hear me. As I reach the door, I pull back in surprise. The voices are both clear and recognizable.

"You did _not_!" Black is saying. "All you did was write to an old friend of yours! I was the one who found him and made sure he met the boy!"

"Without _my_ letter, his grandfather would never have given him up!" the scarred spearman, Albus's tutor, tells him. 

Black snorts. "Don't make me laugh! It's obvious who's sacrificed the most over this, and it's _me_! I can't _believe_ that crazy witch killed me! Do you know how many times I've died lately? It's _infuriating_!"

"That woman is no more crazy than I am!" the spearman spits. "You _lost_!"

"The bet was over who could get Albus _married off_ ," Black shouts, "and as I did the most work, I won it fair and square!"

"A bet?" I gasp, taken aback. A deep sense of indignation seeping into my bones, I poise myself in the doorway with what I hope is a foreboding expression on my face. I anchor my hands to my hips. "This was all a _bet_?"

An ugly look on his ugly face, the soldier sits beside a desk of polished rosewood with exquisite ivory inlays. He glares at me, his gaze venomous as a cobra. On his desk sits a manky looking garden rat.

"Good morning, Jade," Black says, his whiskers twitching. "Just the impartial judge we need! You'll tell how I helped you most, right? You don't want your dear ancestor to lose, and all the points to go to this sniveling little--"

" _Black!_ " the spearman shouts.

"The points are _mine_!" Black yells.

"In your _dreams_!" the other man fires back.

"Points for what?" I ask. "For the afterlife? To retain your immortality?" 

I wonder for the first time if Black might be one of the _hsien_ , men who have become immortal through cultivating proper esoteric practices. The heavenly bureaucrats are said to demand heavy prices for such favors, though not by payment in the normal way. Sometimes they demand superhuman physical tasks or feats of great intelligence that only the most educated and cultured could hope to perform. Perhaps Black made a deal with them, and he needs these "points" to survive.

But then why would the spearman want the points for himself? Is he an immortal as well? And what are the points awarded for? Good deeds? If so, they're both surely in the negative after _this_ debacle!

Black laughs, and I realize how silly I must look in my confusion, my brow creased and eyes unfocused on a makeup-smeared face. I rub at my cheek. 

"The points aren't for immortality," he tells me, and I could swear his little rodent mouth is smiling. "You see, the two of us have a running tally going. We make bets, and whoever wins… well…"

"Whoever wins," the spearman says, " _wins_."

I shake my head. "Wins what?"

They both stare at me as though I've lost my mind.

My face heats with righteous anger. "You've made a game of me, then, of my life? You've turned my world upside-down simply to _best_ one another?" I demand, turning to Black, and I feel hysteria creeping in. "But I thought you cared about me. I thought you'd come to _save_ me! I thought--"

"Oh, _he_ might've considered it a game," Black says, ignoring the nasty look the spearman shoots him, "but _I_ knew the seriousness of it. I _am_ your ancestor, and I _do_ want the best for you, whether or not you know what that is. But, you see, all the old Han families are related, so I'm an ancestor to the Prince as well. He's particularly dear to me, and I've devoted myself expressly to the happiness and prosperity of his children."

"So when you promised to fix my feet…" I begin.

"Oh, I was going to!" Black promises. "I swear to you! If that crazy whore of a step-grandmother of yours hadn't butted in, you'd be wearing shoes as large as mine! Well, not mine at the _moment_ , considering my current incarnation, but--"

"Liar!" snaps the spearman. "You would never have accepted a loss to me so easily!"

"I would've just found a different girl!" Black insists. "After I delivered the boy here as a personal servant to the Heir, of course."

My jaw drops open. "But you said you were going to take me to my father!"

"Nasty bit of a lie," he tells me with a wave of a little rat paw. "You would've hated it in the Forbidden City. Believe me, I've been there. Horrific place. Smells like urine. You're much better off here with honest people and all the _clouds and rain_ you could ever ask for."

My bottom lip begins to tremble, and tears spring to my eyes, obscuring my view of the two men. I was wrong! I had no savior, and no one loves me after all! It was all a game, and I'm just a toy, something to be tossed this way or that when the mood strikes, and when the children tire of playing with me--

"Darling Jade," the spearman says, voice soft and melodic. His hand comes to rest on my shoulder, and I wipe at my eyes. "This man betrayed your family. It is through his actions that your great uncle was put to death. Did you truly believe he was to be trusted?"

Black starts to say something, but I cut across him. "I don't _know_ what to believe anymore! My entire existence is misery and pain!" I cry, hand upon my forehead.

Black groans. "Oh, for the love of--"

"There, there," the spearman says, and his hands, oddly soft, brush my hair back, his thumb rubbing at my makeup-smeared lip. "I promise to look out for you, to provide anything which you might require. Simply award the points to _me_. Oh, but don't make your decision now… read this first."

In my hand he places a letter sealed with my father's mark. 

I'm not supposed to have such things, communications from a family which is no longer mine. I shouldn't take it, but my heart aches to read my dear father's words. And wouldn't it be bad manners to refuse a gift? A strange joy infuses me, and I look up into the face of the giver, thinking to find his homely featured softened by kindness. Perhaps his coldness is simply a veneer upon that soft, romantic soul which fell so deeply in love with a dying woman. His pitted skin and oily hair are as repulsive as always, though, and his eyes are harder than ever.

"Thank you," I murmur, looking back down again. I clutch the letter to my chest. Oh, poor Father! Surely he's in great distress for my plight and heartbroken that he'll never see me again!

Black and the spearman exchange words, but I don't hear them. Tears fill my eyes at the thought of my beloved father, so far away in the Capitol and unable to save his only child from a cruel grandfather's avarice and the trickery of Han blood traitors!

I wipe at my eyes as the spearman warns me, "Do not let your mother-in-law see that, or she will make your life even more miserable than she already intends. Also, do not eat or drink anything she gives you. Am I clear?"

Nodding, I tuck the letter into the waistband of my skirt, intent upon keeping the correspondence a secret. They're all mad here, with unstylish hair and bad complexions, and people like that are not to be trusted. 

Paws pattering against the floor and tail waving, Black leads me back to Albus's room, to the horror of several servant girls who cross our path. They scream and leap about on their silly clomping feet at the sight of him.

"Did I not advise you to transform into less common animals?" I ask as he swears and dodges the swat of a rug beater. 

Why does no one appreciate my wisdom?

* * * * *

Standing before his window in a deep green tunic and trousers, my husband scowls and rubs at his now bald forehead. The newly exposed skin is a pale and sickly color from lack of sunlight, and it looks silly beside the tan of his face. I almost wish he'd kept it the way it was.

He looks at me and smiles. 

My face flushes as I think of last night, and I turn my eyes to my toes. Did I really do all of that? Did I scream and moan and gasp and let him put his… up my… It seems so far away and surreal, I wonder if it could've been a dream. Though I've never had a particularly aberrant imagination… 

I close my eyes, but it only makes me recall the feel of his fingers on my thighs, his lips on my neck… The lack of food must be getting to me because I suddenly feel quite faint. I can fake a pretty swoon, but I find real ones much less to my liking. I'm quite relieved when my husband seats me and places in my hand a tangerine, a fruit known to instill luck. I could not be more thankful that he scarcely touches me in the process.

"So what have we got planned next?" Hugo asks. He sits on Albus's bed bending my wedding headdress back into shape. Crooked butterflies bounce drunkenly about his fingers. I'd forgot all about throwing the thing, and I chew at my bottom lip wondering what he must think of me.

Gnawing on myself could hardly improve his opinion, though, so I stop.

"I'm thinking… silk," Albus says, back by the window with the sunlight doing complimentary things to the contour of his cheekbones. "We haven't covered that one yet. Though all those worms do make me a bit sick. It's their nasty little mouths."

"You're only doing it for the day," Hugo tells him.

"And when you step on them, they squish, and you've got worm parts all over your feet," he continues. "I'm not sure I'm in the mood to walk around in worm parts today."

"Why would one ever be in the mood to walk in worm parts?" I wonder as my fingers bite into the skin of my fruit. 

Hugo gives a most exhausted sigh, and my husband gives a surprisingly bitter laugh. "If only my stupid brother hadn't got himself killed, I'd be saying the same thing. But now I've got to be all _responsible_ and _adult_ , and get ready for when I become Prince. No more mourning for my lost life of ease!"

"Mourning or not, you still should've cut your hair," Hugo informs him.

"But it _itches_ when it's this short!" he laments.  
**  
I must have made a noise of some sort because when he next speaks, his words are for me. "I realize how strange it seems, but I didn't expect to become heir, you know. Now that I am, though, I'm going to become the best Prince I can; and to rule over people well, you've got to _understand_ them, know what they want and need. That's why we've been going out and trying every profession we can think of, living like peasants, practicing common trades. Right, Hugo?"

Hugo gives an affirmative hum, and I blink, attempting to process the idea, tangerine slice poised before my lips. "But… everyone says you've been drinking and carrying on with the commoners," I offer up before taking an appropriately small bite.

I think I've never tasted anything so delicious before in my life. 

He nods. "Oh, we do that, too. I'm not much for alcohol, but people are more willing to give you a straight answer when they're relaxed, and a few glasses of rice wine will usually do the trick. Or pretending you and your best friend are Imperial messengers, that works pretty well, too. You wouldn't _believe_ the things people say when they think you're nobody. One man even _spat_ on me!"

"I had a girl pass out once," Hugo adds. "I took the tiniest glimpse at her feet, and she wilted like an unwatered hydrangea. Her grandfather threatened to eviscerate me. It was rather a terrifying experience, I must say."

He doesn't look up from my headdress, which I now see is also missing a strand of pearls, the bare thread dangling over his fingers, but it's obvious which girl he's referring to.

I clear my throat. "Perhaps she was upset by such an intimate gesture. Han girls are unused to such treatment; only their husbands should clearly view their lilies."

He shrugs. "Perhaps. Or perhaps she was causing me trouble on purpose."

That did have something to do with it, but I'm not sure it would be wise to express this. "Perhaps you misjudge her," I suggest.

"Perhaps," he accedes, though he sounds unconvinced. "But in any case, her secret is safe with me and Lily."

"Um, am I missing something?" my husband asks, scratching at his forehead.

"Yes," Hugo tells him. "Three pearls." 

I do admire his quick wit, if nothing else.

Albus sighs. The sound has strangely contented undertones that remind me of last night, and I hurriedly stuff my mouth full of tangerine. It does a poor job of distracting me. Am I doomed to forever think of nothing but _clouds and rain_ whilst in his presence? Why did no one warn me!

I do my best to ignore the two men as they mull over the predicament of my lost pearls. Father's letter pokes into my stomach, and I fuss with the tangerine rind, wanting to read, but not quite daring to attempt to locate somewhere private to do it. Even so, the feel of the paper against my skin is comforting, and I dream of Father's kind words. 

Oh, I hope he's not so upset that it threatens his health! 

In the mean time, Albus and Hugo have begun searching the floor. I hear them scuttling around, and when I look up, I spill tangerine seeds at the sight of Hugo's backside protruding from under the bed.

"So, speaking of responsible governing, you'll never guess what Jade and I were talking about last night," Albus is saying, though my eyes seem unable to draw themselves away from Hugo's trousers. The fabric clings and creases in ways that Hanfu don't, forming a deep vee between his thighs; Manchu fashion is so barbaric. It's appalling, their lack of taste.

I cock my head for a better look. 

"Are you sure your wedding night pillow-talk is an appropriate topic?" Hugo's voice comes from under the bed, muted but clear. His trousers are very… black.

How interesting.

"Hey, I'll have you know my wife is a brilliant conversationalist. She's probably the most educated woman in the Banner," Albus insists, and I can't help but feel pride at his compliments. "Believe it or not, last night we were discussing mercantilism, and--"

"Oh, is that what we're calling it now? _Discussing mercantilism?_ " Hugo asks, amusement in his voice.

Albus snorts. "Oh, stop! I'm being serious!"

"So am I," Hugo tells him, sliding out from under the bed. He holds a pearl between his thumb and forefinger. "It's a very… stimulating subject, don't you think? Academically speaking, of course. Does your new wife know as much as that merchant did? You remember, don't you-- the teahouse owner's son, the one who so kindly gave you free tours of the upstairs rooms of the--" 

"Oh, I _remember_ the teahouse owner's son," Albus grins. "And I guarantee you, _no one_ knows as much about mercantilism as he does!"

The two of them share a laugh over their silly little secret, and I find myself becoming rather cross with them. I wish they'd just get on with this silkworm plan of theirs and bid me leave so that I can read my letter. Or…

Would it seem strange for me to suggest that my husband take a turn looking under the bed?

I ponder for a moment and have just come to the conclusion that I'm well within my rights, as the pearls wouldn't be missing if not for him, when he swears and claps his hand to his forehead. "I almost forgot, my tutor has a letter for you!" he exclaims. "I was supposed to get it for you right away! I hope he's still in his office…"

He looks about to walk out, which is in no way acceptable. What about my pearls? Does he expect _me_ to look for them? "Someone brought it to me earlier," I lie, not wanting to recount the tale. Getting lost is embarrassing, and however could I explain the talking rat?

"Oh, well that's good," he says, looking relieved. "I didn't really want to get smacked again. So… what was it about? It was from your father in the Capitol, right? Is everything okay?"

"Are you sure it was proper for her to read it?" Hugo asks.

Albus gives him an odd look. "What would be improper about it?"

His cousin pulls a face. "You're too lenient," he admonishes. "If you let her talk to anyone she likes, she's going to betray you. It always happens, that's how women are. She'll have an affair or something." 

"With her own _father_? Look," he says, turning to me, "you can read any letters you want, Jade, I don't care. I know you'll use good judgment. And if you want to send anything, just give it to one of your eunuchs, and they'll take care of it for you. My mother didn't give you all old, ugly ones, did she? Or little boys who still wet themselves?"

"Actually, I haven't met them yet. I was told by Aunt--" I search my memory for the crazy woman's name, but of course it evades me, "by your cousin's mother that she's given them the day off. Also, she would like my assistance in putting an end to the custom. I would hate to upset such a well-meaning woman, but are you sure I should accept her invitation?"

Hugo swears. "Do you see why I disagree with educating women?"

"Hugo," Albus starts, voice sympathetic.

He fumes, quite literally, his face going red before my eyes. "Imagine, trying to recruit innocent strangers into her harebrained schemes-- I can't _believe_ her! It's _humiliating_! This is as bad as the time she decided to go horseback riding!"

Albus makes a calming noise. "Really, it's not a--"

"No, wait," Hugo corrects, "nothing could be as bad as the horseback riding. Seeing a respectable woman-- my own _mother_!-- in _trousers_ up on a horse with her _legs spread_ \-- I'll never outlive the shame!"

I was unsure about Hugo before, but now I see he's a proper and well-disciplined young man. How such a child could have emerged from the womb of a woman with so little self-respect and propriety, I can't fathom, but I'm sure I've found an ally in him. His father must be a very impressive man to have raised him so well; clearly, Grandfather was wrong about that family.

"This _cannot_ go on!" Hugo announces, and reaches into his pocket. He pulls out a handful of something and holds it out to Albus, who realizes rather too late his intent. He swears as my pearls slip between his fingers and skitter across the ground even as Hugo marches out the door, jaw set and cheeks blazing red.

Albus stares after him, looking baffled, empty hands held before him. "I really don't think it's that big of a deal," he mumbles.

"My pearls are rolling about at your feet," I inform him.

He sighs and squats down to collect them, muttering something about overreactions. 

Watching him pluck gems off the floor, light reflecting off the shine of his newly shaven forehead and tunic covering the more interesting aspects of his trousers, I wonder if he was telling the truth about the letter. He said he didn't mind me reading, but perhaps he was testing me; what man allows his wife such things? There is of course only one way to find out, and, emboldened, I pull Father's letter from my skirt and break the seal. Anticipation making my entire body tingle, I unfold the paper and read:

_My dearest child, I offer my most sincere apologies for missing your wedding, but as you know, the Emperor is in dire need of my counsel. The man is lost without me. I wish to congratulate you, and also to explain something which I should have made clear to you some time ago: you were never to be the Prince's servant. There was no life debt._

"Jade," my husband says. 

I shake my head and continue reading, heart beating hard in my chest. No life debt? What could this mean?

_My heart aches on account of my lie, but it was the only way. When we were children, the Prince and I were enemies, but we sought to put our enmity aside and ally our houses. I promised my firstborn son to him so that he might have my child trained alongside his own in the ways of the military. You were to be the leader of one of the Banner's regiments._

"Jade," Albus says again, "do you want me to--"

"Shh!" I hiss. "I'm _trying_ to read!"

_From your earliest days, though, the entire household knew that this would not suit you. You were sweet and kind, and had a certain liking for flashy jewelry and parading about the house in your mother's shoes. In the military, you would have been a failure, a disappointment to yourself, and a disgrace to your family._

_Thus, when your mother became pregnant again, we decided your fate. We would raise you as a girl and give a younger sibling to the Prince for military training. You, we would present to the Prince as a gift, a beautiful oddity in order to gain his favor. I know from personal experience that he would have appreciated this in ways which words cannot properly describe._

"Jade," Albus repeats. "What do you--"

"My _name_ ," I snap, fed up with his interruptions "is not _Jade_! It is _Scorpius_ , and you shall call me by it!"

I catch a glimpse of his frown before I turn my eyes back to the letter. "Scorpius? Really? Do I have to? I mean… it's sort of stupid…"

_However, my darling, you have done us one better. Your bride price has nearly doubled our wealth, and because of it, I've been able to gain much influence here at court. Tales of your rare good looks and infinitesimal feet reach far and wide, and a number of my superiors have inferred that a man who fathers such a beauty would make a good match for their daughter. I expect to have a new wife and a half dozen concubines within the year, with sons to come soon after._

_All of this is due to you, my most clever child, and I could not love you more for it. You are greater than the stars in the heavens for which you were named. Now that you have the Prince's heir in your sway, my fatherly advice is to demand what you want in no uncertain terms, and never settle for less than what you deserve. And what you deserve is everything. May you swim in jewels, eat the rarest of fruits, and drift to sleep on mounds of fine silk with your handsome young husband in your arms!_

_Also, I've decided to take Pansy with me to the Capitol in order to benefit from her particular talents, so if you should desire her daughter as a servant and future concubine for your husband should your union fail to produce an heir, you have but to ask._

Here, the letter ends, and I stare at it for some time, feeling blank as an unprinted book. Everything I've known has been a lie. I was never in danger of servitude. I could have had a normal, ordinary life. I _should_ have!

"Ja-- um, Scorpius?" my husband asks. His hand rests upon my shoulder. "Are you alright? You look pale…"

I've always loved Father best, felt that we shared a connection. I've never thought him duplicitous or fork-tongued or in any way unworthy of my deepest trust. He's always been true and just, never one to cause a commotion, following the rules to the letter. And now, I see that I was foolish to have judged him so. I was a child, and I knew nothing. With his letter in my hand, ink staring accusingly up at my ignorance, I realize something that I never in my wildest dreams would have imagined:

My father is a genius.

I would have simply _hated_ serving in the military! Imagine being in constant danger and consorting with the lowest of men in filthy conditions on a daily basis! It's too horrible to even consider! I'm _much_ better off here being waited upon by eunuchs and basking in luxury. Even if I'd been handed over to the Prince as a plaything, it wouldn't have been so bad. I don't much care for the look of spectacles on a man, and he's a bit old, but I have little doubt his attentions would have been satisfactory. Perhaps if I'd been clever enough about things, he'd have purchased a clever jade bed for me as well.

But I wasn't given to the Prince after all-- I married his son. I haven't done what I was meant to do… no, I've done _better_! I'm not a disgrace as I'd thought, shaming myself with emotions I can't control-- I'm a complete success! And Father is _proud_! A smile tugs at my lips, and I gaze up at my husband. 

Concern wrinkles his brow, but when he sees my smile, he smiles back. The deep green of his clothing reflects in his brilliant eyes, like the emerald gaze of the dying Lily from that old story. His lips look soft, and I think of their humid warmth against my skin. 

"So it was a good letter?" my husband asks.

My heart pounds so hard, it feels as though it may escape my chest. Why did no one tell me earlier that this was allowed? I feel as though I've lost so much time…

"Why are you dressed?" I demand.

He blinks.

"It is the day after our wedding ceremony, yet you make plans to leave me. Am I so unsatisfactory that you've tired of me already? Should you not at least be more concerned with begetting sons than stamping through insects?" I ask, standing to look him square in the eye. 

His mouth hangs open.

"If you're so keen on spending time with your friend, perhaps you should have married him instead. However, as you did _not_ ," I inform him, "you had better take your clothing off. Now." I'm taller than he is, I realize, and looking down my nose at him has a rather nice effect.

His lips work at something that might be attempting speech, but no sound comes.

"On second thought," I declare, holding up my hand in case he might dare to protest, "take off _my_ clothes first. And then do _exactly_ what you did last night. Only make it last longer, or I may be forced to resort to physical violence."

He swallows, and something in his throat squeaks. "That… was a _really_ good letter, wasn't it?"

I want to smile in that wicked way Step-Grandmother does, but I decide to practice in the mirror first. I'm afraid it would look wrong, and I hardly want to scare him off, not now, so I grace him with my most demure and maidenly expression.

"Father is well," I offer in pseudo-innocent explanation.

"Oh. Well, um… so am I," he says, grin breaking out across his face. It's like the sun breaking through clouds, making my whole body go warm, and I don't even protest the indignity of being treated like a sack of rice when he grabs me about the middle, throws me over his shoulder, and hauls me to the bed. 

And this time, I don't close my eyes, and he doesn't call me by some fake name. I'm Scorpius, _me_ , taking my rightful place in the heavens. And where else should I be? On the day I was born, the astronomers knew how brightly my future shined before me; how could I have thought they were wrong? 

After all, the stars never lie.

And furthermore, I do believe that the next time I see Black and the spearman, I shall be claiming those points of theirs for my own. Who could deserve them more?

END

**Author's Note:**

> I am not entirely sure of how Scorpius's gender orientation should be tagged. I went with Genderqueer, but maybe this isn't quite right? If anyone has suggestions, I would be glad to add/alter tags to make sure I'm characterizing him properly. Thanks!
> 
> This story was originally written in 2009 and posted on LiveJounal. Where have the years gone??


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